CHAPTER TWELVE
On returning home after the funeral service, Swann and Mary had spent most of the afternoon in the drawing room, either in contemplation or reading books; Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe and Evelina by Frances Burney.
Enthused at her meeting with her aunt, Mary had decided on the carriage ride back that she wished to begin reading more books about women’s experiences which had been written by women. She had been a little disappointed to find her father had only male writers in his library, except for the Burney volume, and even that was only there, she assumed, because her father probably did not realise that it had been written by a woman. It was a first edition and had been published anonymously, the author’s identity and gender not being revealed until several years after its publication. It was in the epistolary form – a novel based on a series of letters – and although not advocating any serious revolution in women’s thoughts, nevertheless had caused a stir in its day.
The only other book in the house that had been written by a woman was The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe, which her mother had been reading before she died. It had been borrowed from one of the four circulating libraries that she belonged to and would have to be returned. She had a feeling it was Pratt and Marshall in Milsom Street, but she would ask her brother to make enquiries. Her mother had adored gothic novels and in one month, she remembered, had devoured the following: The Italian, Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, and Orphan of the Rhine. Mary had gone to take the bookmark out of the Udolpho book, when she had found it, but for some reason had left it in there and replaced it on her mother’s bedside cabinet.
For whatever reason, and she could not think what that might be, Mary had never purchased any books while in Bath. With the contents of her father’s library, albeit dominated by male writers, and the circulating libraries the family subscribed to, there never seemed to be any need. Nothing she had read from either source had made her want to purchase a copy of her own.
Swann had also chosen his book from the library, although there was no disguising the gender of its author. Daniel Defoe had been widely credited with creating the novel form, although he had already had a distinguished career as a journalist and pamphleteer before writing his first novel, Robinson Crusoe, at the age of almost sixty.
The previous evening, on his first night in Bath and before retiring to bed, Swann had made a brief study of the library and its contents. He had discovered the book and had taken it off the shelf. As he held it in his hands he felt the familiar binding, the familiar texture and the familiar lettering that spelt out the author’s name and its title. After he had been adopted by the Gardiners he had returned the book to the library without reading any more. He always thought that one day he would finish reading it, but for one reason or another had not done so. He had searched for it on one occasion in the library at the London residence but could not locate it; the reason for that now clear. He could have bought a copy of the book for himself but there was something about wanting to read that exact copy. On discovering it, he had taken it out and decided that now was the time to finally finish it and so find out what had happened to this man stranded on his ‘island of despair’. He had begun reading the book immediately, from the beginning again, and continued reading it during the afternoon. Crusoe had now established himself on the island and where he had been full of regret at the place where Swann originally stopped reading, he had subsequently come to terms with what fate had dealt him. When Swann had reached the place he had stopped, he paused for a few moments and thought about his father.
When Mary had retired to her room to get dressed for the evening ball, Swann had gone upstairs to the library to study the map he had noticed, which hung on one of the walls. It had been too dark the previous evening, but he now tried to trace the route he had taken when chasing the pickpocket. The area he had found himself in, however, was ill-defined and like most of the guidebooks on the city, it only concentrated on giving the details of the upper parts of the city. ‘Too little detail,’ he said to himself, ‘and out of date.’
It was nearing six o’clock and Swann made his way downstairs. His intention was to intercept Lockhart on the street, before he called on his sister, so as to discreetly ask why he had not been forthcoming with the information regarding Bristol.
Meanwhile, Emily had just finished dressing Mary’s hair when there was a knock on the main door. She left the room and went downstairs to answer it.
As Swann passed Mary’s room, she called to him. ‘Can you help me with my necklace, please?’
Swann reluctantly entered the room and went to the aid of his sister. The gold clasp of her necklace snapped shut easily with Swann’s help and they both found themselves looking in the mirror for a moment at the pendant around her neck.
‘It was a gift from Edmund,’ replied Mary. ‘I thought I would wear it this evening. Are you sure you will not attend?’
‘You know how much I dislike those kinds of social occasions and I still do not believe that your attending is appropriate.’
Mary did not answer.
‘So, how were you introduced to Mr Lockhart?’
‘Through one of Henry’s colleagues, a Mr Kirby.’
‘And what do you know of this man?’ asked Swann, with a hint of interrogation about his voice, ‘other than the fact he is several years your senior.’
At this, Mary turned to gaze at her brother.
‘I know that I am fond of him, despite the difference in our ages, and I believe that feeling to be reciprocated.’
Before Swann could say anything else, there was a knock on the bedroom door and Emily entered. ‘Please madam, a note has just arrived addressed to you.’
Mary took the note.
‘Thank you Emily, that will be all for now.’
As Emily left, Mary opened the envelope and began to read its contents.
‘Is it from him?’ Swann asked.
Mary did not reply but instead put the note down on the dressing table and began to undo the necklace.
‘Perhaps it is better not to go out this evening, after all. Edmund has placed it within pleasing words but he now maintains his earlier conviction that it is not appropriate behaviour for me to attend the ball this evening and has decided to postpone our arrangement for, what he says, will be a more apposite time.’
Swann looked at his sister and feeling this was the right opportunity, spoke.
‘Mary, would it surprise you to learn your Mr Lockhart was on the same coach as myself from London yesterday.’
Mary thought for a moment.
‘Then why did I not see him alight with you?’ she queried.
‘Because he journeyed on to Bristol,’ replied Swann, deciding at present not to mention anything about the two women who were travelling with him.
‘Surely you must be mistaken?’ said Mary.
‘I am not,’ replied Swann.
Mary was silent for another moment or two.
‘Then there must be a rational explanation,’ she finally said, ‘of which we do not know.’
‘If that is the case,’ said Swann, ‘then why did he not mention anything when he recognised me at the funeral.’
‘You did not mention anything, either.’
‘I wanted to protect you from a potentially embarrassing situation.’
‘Perhaps Edmund had the same idea.’
‘Mary, you are a strong, independent woman, and I have always admired you for that, but when it comes to matters of the heart I feel you are not so. My professional instinct tells me there is something about this man I find unsettling.’
‘Well, my female intuition tells me otherwise,’ said Mary, ‘although I did not foresee not being able to attend the ball.’
They were silent for a few moments before Swann bent over and picked up the pendant from where Mary had laid it on the dressing table.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In any account of Bath’s remarkable transformation in the eighteenth century, from mediaeval textile centre to fashionable playground of the upper classes, there are three names that need always to be included: Allen, Wood and Nash. Collectively known as the three ‘creators’ of Bath, the individual and distinctive legacies this triumvirate of self-made men left for the city, reverberated through the entire century and continued to do so at the opening of the next.
If Ralph Allen, one-time postmaster general turned property developer who discovered, developed and supplied the Bath Stone which would give the city its worldwide fame, brought the raw materials and the elder John Wood, who laid out designs for the city that gave it an enviable reputation as an architectural marvel, supplied the architectural vision, then Richard ‘Beau’ Nash contributed the social infrastructure and modes of behaviour which made Bath as famous as its stone and building style.
Nash was born into poverty but by sheer determination, audacity and charm rose to become one of the most powerful men in the city. He arrived in 1705, at the age of thirty-one and with his impeccable manners and affable nature swiftly made a name for himself within the burgeoning social scene. He acquired the moniker ‘Beau’ on account of his fine dressing – it was said that he would rather forgo a meal than a prized item of clothing – and on attaining the position of Master of Ceremonies, was dubbed the ‘King of Bath’.
With the power accorded his position Nash now set about ‘cleaning’ up the city both physically, through installing proper street lighting and paved walkways, and socially, by creating the ‘Rules to be observed in Bath.’ The latter being created to combat what he saw as people behaving in a ‘rude and quarrelsome way.’ The rules were vigorously endorsed and not even the titled could escape conforming to them. Yet how ironic it should be then, that when Beau Nash died, emblazoned on his tombstone was the inscription: Beams ille qui sibi imperiosus. Happy is he who rules himself. Yet the rules he created for others during the eighteenth century still remained intact at the beginning of the nineteenth, four decades after his demise; adhered to by all and enforced by the succeeding Master of Ceremonies.
Despite this ordered sense of regulation the previous ninety minutes had witnessed severe chaos, before a solution had been reached not long before the first guests arrived at the Upper Rooms for that evening’s one-off special Charity Ball. A runner had been dispatched earlier to the residency of the current Master of Ceremonies, Mr Richard Tyson, only to find him ill in bed and in no fit state to perform his duty. With little more than an hour before the official start of the ball, a replacement had been sought. And so it was that a Mr Salter of New King Street was duly summoned and hastened forth to execute his duties. Having been in this situation twice before, however, Mr Salter was not overawed in the slightest and performed his duties admirably.
By the time Mary and Swann arrived, Mr Salter had announced a good three dozen revellers and after being given his instructions, Mr Salter did loudly, but clearly and without hesitation, announce: ‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present Miss Mary Gardiner of Bath and Mr Jack Swann of London.’
Having only this temporary role and not being one to give or receive gossip in his ordinary daily business, the disapproving looks that accompanied his announcement, from several members of the already assembled company towards the newly arrived couple, left Mr Salter believing that any impropriety must reside in their bold statement of attachment, their arms interlinked as one might undertake with a family member or spouse, rather than it being due to their abject display of non-conformity regarding the strict rules of mourning; a convention not actually laid down by Nash himself but one which he would have wholeheartedly agreed.
Mr Salter may have surmised about the mourning, due to the nature of Miss Gardiner’s clothing, but as he had of late been in the presence of several women who had taken to the wearing of the colour black merely as a fashion statement, rather than as a resigned necessity, he reserved his right as the acting Master of Ceremonies to impart any judgement and he would not, even if asked, be drawn on any conclusion as to the disapproving glances. Therefore, always professional in his outlook and immaculate in his conduct, both in this function and his ordinary day-to-day behaviour, there was no expression of censure on Mr Salter’s face and he bowed courteously as Mary walked by.
As Mary and her brother entered the main room, a wave of outraged, although hushed, whispering rippled around the periphery of the dance floor, alongside, however, another less powerful though still present, chorus of approval at her stand. As was the way, the disapproval was reserved solely for Mary, with her male companion being pitied for having, no doubt, been forced into such an overt display of social disobedience. Nevertheless, nothing was spoken outright to Mary’s person and a victory, however small, had been won for those people to whom it meant something. Not that anyone present, even those who had voiced approval, would dare to mimic it, but the fact that it had been done, and most publicly seen to be done, was enough. Meanwhile, Swann, whatever his thoughts on the matter might be, merely held his head up high as he walked forward with his sister.
‘Thank you for escorting me, Jack,’ said Mary, ‘it means a lot to me.’
‘Do not mention it,’ replied Swann. ‘It is not often I have such beauty on my arm and the occasion to escort that beauty in public.’
Despite the voices of disapproval, the truth regarding the couple’s relationship, that of siblings, and estimates of Swann’s income – which fluctuated anywhere between five thousand and ten thousand pounds a year, depending on who was doing the recounting – soon drowned them out and a host of single women, including one Isabella Thorpe, had their eyes now firmly set on the formerly ‘pitied’ male companion.
On observing this spectacle of these fawning pairs of eyes, Mary could not resist gently teasing her brother about it, but he did not rise to the bait.
They now saw Fitzpatrick. He rarely ventured to the ball, but on learning that Mary intended to be there, had gone to offer his support, if required. Fitzpatrick now saw the couple and smiled. Although he was genuinely pleased to see them, he was also only too glad to have the interruption, as a couple of gentlemen, who really should have known better at these occasions, had been tormenting his ear about certain judicial matters. He excused himself from their berating and came over to where Swann and Mary now stood.
‘Before I forget,’ said Fitzpatrick, ‘I have this very evening learnt of some news which I believe will be of most interest to you Mary. The Tilneys have been blessed with a second daughter, whom I believe they mean to name Jane.’
‘That is wonderful news, thank you Henry. And the mother, she is well?’
‘Yes, I understand Catherine is well.’
‘I am glad,’ replied Mary. ‘The couple actually met in Bath,’ Mary now said to her brother. ‘What is it now, Henry, five, six years ago?’
‘At least that, I would say,’ replied Fitzpatrick.
Swann realised Mary’s meaning and smiled. ‘I do not believe that I shall be so fortunate, even though I can see there are many who would wish it so.’
Before Mary could respond, however, Lockhart appeared beside them.
‘Mary, you are here! You did not receive my communication?’
‘Yes I did Edmund, but I decided to attend after all. Jack was kind enough to escort me. And now that I am here Edmund, will you kindly ask me for a dance. You do not mind Jack?’
Swann shook his head. ‘Of course not, I shall enjoy resuming my conversation with Fitzpatrick.’
Although reluctant, Lockhart conceded and the couple moved off toward the dance floor, just in time for the beginning of the next dance. Lockhart and Mary took their places in the appropriate lines, facing each other, and the music began.
Swann stood with Fitzpatrick and watched the couple.
‘What do you know about that gentleman, Lockhart?’ asked Swann.
‘Not much,’ replied Fitzpatrick. ‘I am acquainted with him through Ki
rby, a fellow magistrate. I believe they have mutual interests in London. He does seem to have made quite an impression on your sister. But why do you ask?’
‘Precisely because of that impression, Mr Fitzpatrick.’
Fitzpatrick tapped his own pocket. ‘Thank you once more for yesterday,’ he said. ‘It would have caused great inconvenience had you not recovered my bill-purse after it was stolen.’
‘You are most welcome,’ said Swann. ‘It is most ironic though. I saw the very thief emerge from the courthouse, where no doubt he had just been set free from a previous crime, and almost in sight of the building, immediately commit two instances of pickpocketing.’
‘There was another victim?’
‘He attempted to steal from my person as well, but when on the street I always keep my valuables elsewhere.’ At this, Swann tapped his hat to indicate the hiding place.
‘I was speaking to Kirby about the incident and told him that we could do with a man like you here. You do not have the inclination to stay on in Bath?’
‘I am afraid my place is in London.’
‘I hope I do not appear impertinent, but Mary informed me you were adopted by her family, yet you do not share the same surname.’
‘It is out of respect for my real father. Has Mary told you the circumstances surrounding the adoption?’
Fitzpatrick shook his head. ‘I hope I have not spoken out of turn?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Swann. ‘My father was butler to the Gardiners. He was murdered trying to protect their property in their London residence. In gratitude the family brought me up as their child. I have spent the last number of years searching for my father’s killer. His name is Malone, which is why I was asking you about him earlier today.’
Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, Mary and Lockhart circled each other once again, as part of the sequence of figures making up the dance.
The Regency Detective Page 6