The Bath Trilogy

by Amanda Scott

  When she left the garden at last, she saw Ching Ho coming toward her from the stables and quickened her step, wanting to thank him for his morning remedy, but she was diverted by the sound of a carriage on the drive, and turned in time to see Sydney in his curricle, disappearing out the gate toward the main road. Knowing she had been in the garden for nearly an hour, Carolyn stood for a long minute, wondering what on earth had kept him so long in the stable. By the time she turned back toward the house, Ching Ho had disappeared indoors.

  VIII

  THE PARTY FROM BATHWICK HILL HOUSE arrived at Oatlands Park soon after midday the following Tuesday, having spent Monday night at Reading. They had their first view of the park from Sydney’s luxurious traveling carriage when it reached the top of a hill from which they could also see Hampton Court Palace across the Thames. They could see only the rooftops of Oatlands, nestled in a thick growth of trees, until the carriage had passed the gate house and emerged from woodland onto the front drive. But compared with the magnificent structure seen just minutes before, the unpretentious blocklike house seemed to Carolyn to be very plain indeed, and she did not hesitate to say so.

  “I have no great opinion of the Duke of York,” Lady Skipton said unnecessarily, “but I give credit where it is due. When that elegant old Palladian manor house they first moved into burned down—fifteen years ago, that must be now—he might have let the whole place go, but knowing how Frederica loved it, he built her a new house at once. And, as you will soon see, my dear, though the facade is plain, the interior is perfectly splendid. Indeed, I believe Frederica might be altogether content if York could but try to behave himself. But he never will learn. The Regent ought never to have reinstated him as commander of the army. ’Tis that sort of misguided forbearance which encourages York to misbehave.”

  Sydney, who had been dozing beside Miss Pucklington in the forward seat until Carolyn had spoken, regarded his parent sleepily from beneath drooping eyelids. “Really, Mama, one can scarcely blame Prinny for his brothers’ misdeeds, and you must admit that of the lot, York is the best. Only contrast him with the wicked Cumberland, if you will. Moreover, York and his duchess were not on speaking terms for months before the Clarke scandal. At least now they appear to be friendly.”

  “I don’t know that York is the best of them,” Carolyn said provocatively. “The Duke of Cambridge must surely be thought unexceptionable. And while Clarence’s language is a trifle unbecoming, and Kent is thought to be rather severe, I have heard that both Cambridge and Sussex are pleasant gentlemen.”

  “One must be extremely tolerant, however,” Sydney said, “to dismiss a score of mistresses—and in Sussex’s case even wives—”

  “Not a score of wives, surely,” she murmured.

  He was given no chance to reply, for the dowager, intent as always upon her own train of thought, declared positively, “I believe Frederica must have always been willing to speak to York, you know. That she remained at his side throughout that awful business—in London, too, when she don’t like the place—is a conspicuous manifestation of her strong sense of duty to him. As for the scandal itself, I do not pretend to understand how Mrs. Clarke was able to sell Army commissions, but she is a scandal in herself and has been so these many years past. However, here we are, and so we will say no more about it.”

  The carriage drew to a halt, the door was opened, the steps let down, and when no one emerged from the house to greet them, the dowager accepted Sydney’s assistance to descend to the drive. Carolyn followed, glad to escape the confines of the carriage at last, and drew a long breath of the crisp, damp air while she waited for the others to emerge. The second carriage, containing the dowager’s lofty dresser as well as Ching Ho, Maggie, and most of the baggage, drew up behind them, but still no servant appeared from the house to attend to them.

  Leaving their minions to deal with the baggage, they passed up the wide stone steps, beneath a high semi-circular portico supported on marble columns, through wide open double oak doors, into the lofty hall, where the royal porter condescended to greet them and beckon forth a footman to escort them to their rooms.

  Carolyn found herself at last in a spacious pink-and-gray bedchamber overlooking extensive gardens north of the house. The room was lavishly decorated with satin hangings, a massive crystal-and-gilt chandelier, and heavily carved cherry furniture resting on a thick Axminster carpet. The only detail of which she disapproved was the large, dirty gray mongrel curled up on the counterpane.

  The dog lifted its head to regard her curiously when she entered the room, then laid it to rest again upon its forepaws without making any more overt attempt to greet her. She turned in dismay to the footman who had escorted her.

  He grinned, looking at once younger and much less stately. “I’ll take him away, miss. Like as not he won’t be the last to visit you, howsomever, being as her highness’s pets have no manners and go where they please. Just you ring for a maid if you find any more where it don’t suit you to find them, and I’ll have that counterpane changed at once. You won’t want to be smelling that fellow all through the night.”

  “Thank you,” Carolyn said faintly, watching as he strode across the carpet and snapped his fingers at the dog. Without so much as lifting its head, it looked up at him with indifference.

  “Come along now,” the footman said sternly. “You ain’t wanted here, lad.”

  When the dog continued to ignore him, the young man finally lifted him bodily and turned to carry him out. The dog made no protest, but Carolyn exclaimed, “It is too bad to make you do this! You will have dog hairs all over your livery.”

  The footman, shifting the dog’s weight, grinned at her again and said, “Lord love you, miss, but we all of us have dog hairs all over us, as does most of the furniture and all of the rugs in the place. ’Tis more than the maids can do to keep the carpets brushed from day to day, but if they did not keep a-trying, we’d soon be buried in the stuff.”

  “Goodness,” Carolyn said, awed.

  From what she had seen, she doubted any other servant would come, but the footman proved as good as his word, and the cover was changed before Maggie arrived with her baggage. A short time later, having changed her traveling dress for an afternoon frock of jonquil silk, Carolyn was trying to decide whether she should go in search of the dowager or simply remain where she was until someone sent for her, when Sydney rapped at her door, offering to accompany her downstairs to meet their hostess. Delighted to see him, she told him instantly about her canine visitor.

  Sydney leveled his quizzing glass at her, looking her up and down before affecting his foppish drawl to say, “That dress becomes you, my dear. Makes me glad I chose this waistcoat instead of the first one Ching had out. Bustled with crimson songbirds, don’t you know, and wouldn’t have looked near as well with your gown as this white-and-gold thing does.”

  “Sydney, did you hear what I said to you? There was a dog—and one that would be hard-pressed to name his ancestors, I can tell you—sleeping on my bed. It was utterly filthy!”

  “It’s gone now, isn’t it? You oughtn’t to let such stuff distress you if you mean to enjoy yourself here, Caro, for the duchess’s dogs are bound to be all over the place. I daresay you’ll find more than one underfoot even when we dine. I don’t mind telling you, it makes me damned glad you managed to convince Mama to leave her wretched Hercules behind.”

  “But doesn’t she ever wash them?”

  “Mama? Certainly not. The servants—”

  “You know I meant the duchess, Sydney,” she retorted, her voice taking on a dangerous edge.

  “Can’t imagine her highness washing a dog, either.”

  Choking back a sudden, irrepressible gurgle of laughter, Carolyn shook her head at him. “You are altogether abominable, sir, and I shan’t talk to you anymore. It must be the effect of this house. No doubt the inhabitants are all as crazy as loons and the affliction is a contagious one.”

  He gave her a direct look then a
nd said without the drawl, “Don’t offer that suggestion to anyone else, Caro. It makes no odds what you say to me, but there are men hereabouts who would take offense at such words, and some of them are dangerous.”

  “Goodness, you sound grim,” she said, “but you needn’t fret, you know. I should certainly never say any such thing to the duke or the duchess.”

  His expression relaxed. “I doubt if either one would take offense. York is too amiable, and the duchess holds by that old Scottish proverb, ‘Live and let live.’ But others, whom it would no doubt behoove you to avoid altogether, are not so tolerant. If you cannot avoid them, Caro, at least set a guard on that impertinent tongue of yours.”

  She had forgotten her determination to use her wiles to teach him a lesson, but she remembered it just in time to avoid telling him sharply that she would thank him to keep his advice to himself. Instead, lowering her lashes and looking up at him from beneath them, she said, “I shall certainly try to keep that in mind, sir, for I have no wish to displease you.”

  Sydney gave her a long, suspicious look, and when she met it limpidly, he said at last in a sardonic tone, “I mentioned the matter only because I should not like you to displease anyone else, Caro—Cumberland, for example.”

  “I have never actually met the Duke of Cumberland,” she observed demurely, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt.

  “Now, that’s precisely the sort of thing I mean,” he informed her sharply. “Don’t go making a cake of yourself. You’d do much better to play least in sight with him.”

  “But you told me that most of what is said about him is only rumors,” she, fluttering her lashes. “I am persuaded that he cannot have done the half of what he has been accused of doing.”

  “Less than half would be enough,” Sydney retorted as they turned a corner and found themselves in an elegantly appointed anteroom. She thought he sounded a bit exasperated, but before she could press the matter further, a footman got up from an armchair near the opposite door and Sydney told him their names.

  Nodding, the man said, “Follow me, sir. Her highness is receiving in the drawing room.”

  There was time for no more private conversation after that, since they were taken directly to the duchess, whom they found in an enormous, high-ceilinged room, surrounded by laughing and chattering members of the beau monde, as well as a number of dogs with noticeably less distinguished pedigrees. Frederica, Duchess of York, was seated in an armchair, receiving her guests with a tiny, bright-eyed, red-capped monkey in her lap.

  When the footman announced their names, the duchess greeted Sydney as an old acquaintance and demanded at once to know where his mother was, thus giving Carolyn a brief moment after she arose from her curtsy, while Sydney explained that Lady Skipton was indulging in her usual afternoon nap and would no doubt be down soon, to collect herself and observe her hostess.

  It was often said of the Duchess of York that not only was she the most popular member of the royal family but the only one among them who knew how to hold court. Indeed, Oatlands was called “the little court” by many, and nearly everyone who knew its mistress had only good things to say about her. Frederica was known for her dignity, her charm, her humor, and her charity. She was not, however, noted for her beauty.

  Even shorter than Carolyn, she was particularly tiny next to her husband, who stood chatting with a guest beside her chair. She wore an expertly-cut gown of china blue to match her eyes, and with her flaxen hair modestly arranged, she made a passable showing, but Carolyn thought it a pity that Frederica’s teeth were so poor, and unfortunate that she had been marked by the smallpox in her youth. The duchess had had no beauty to spare.

  Sydney begged leave to present Carolyn, and when Frederica nodded regally one moment, only to chuckle and shoo him away the next, saying she wished to get to know Miss Hardy without him hovering over them, Carolyn responded instantly to the warmth and sincerity of the welcome and promptly forgot the duchess’s looks.

  With an accent and manner more French than German, that gave her words a pleasing, musical quality and her gestures a bubbling vitality, Frederica said, “We are very pleased that you come to us, child, and hope you will enjoy your visit. Sit still, you!”

  Although the rider was clearly addressed to the monkey, which had suddenly evinced a desire to peer down the duchess’s décolletage, Carolyn had all she could do to maintain her gravity as she replied, “Indeed, your royal highness, I should be very odd if I did not like it here, for I have heard much about the wealth of hospitality to be enjoyed at Oatlands.”

  “You must see my grotto,” the duchess said in a confiding tone, her eyes atwinkle, “for it is of all places my favorite. You may bathe there, if you like,” she added, feeding the monkey a nut from a little dish on the table beside her, “although I must warn you that the water—particularly at this season—is like ice! Only the bravest dare make the plunge.”

  Carolyn smiled as the monkey shoved the treat into its mouth and reached greedily for another. “I am not so brave, ma’am, but if the weather does not grow much colder I shall certainly like to explore your gardens, and I am persuaded that I will find all manner of other things to do, as well.”

  “Indeed, you will, child. And all manner of handsome gentlemen will beg leave to accompany you, I make no doubt.”

  A snort of laughter from her spouse showed that he had overheard her words. He exclaimed, “Well said, my dear, well said! Daresay the chit’ll have the lads all atwitter. Pretty little thing, ain’t she? Do I know you?” he demanded of Carolyn. “Daresay I ought to remember you, but I don’t.”

  Carolyn curtsied. “We have not been introduced, your royal highness. Though I was presented to her majesty, and to the Regent on two occasions, I have never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

  “Very pretty,” observed the duke, but since she was uncertain whether he meant her words or her appearance, she had not the least notion of what to reply to him. Fortunately, he shared with Lady Skipton that trait of being able to converse at length without benefit of response from his audience. “You shall walk with me when you are done exchanging witticisms with my dear Frederica,” he said, adding as he turned back to the guest he had been speaking to before, “Mark me, you’ll not outwit her.”

  The duchess smiled at Carolyn’s startled expression. “Do not heed him. ’Tis only his way of funning. I am well educated but not nearly intelligent enough to be called clever. Therefore do I invite to Oatlands persons like Mr. Brummell and Lord Alvanley, who are deservedly noted for their wit and who amuse me. Mr. Brummell does not honor us on this occasion, but Alvanley—Oh,” she said in a different, less animated tone, looking beyond Carolyn, “you did say you had been presented to the Regent, did you not?” Then, politely, she added, “Sir, perhaps you will condescend to remember Miss Carolyn Hardy.”

  Carolyn turned to find that the Prince Regent had come up directly behind her. Sinking into another deep curtsy, she was conscious of a fleeting hope that her narrow skirts, not to mention her knees, would survive the visit. If several royal dukes joined the company, plus the Princess Charlotte, she might well spend the greater part of her time bobbing up and down.

  Allowing his gaze to drift over her person as she arose, the portly Regent smiled and said affably, “Damme, but I could never forget so lovely a lady, and here is Alvanley to talk with you, ma’am, so you’ll not miss her if I steal her away. We met in London, Miss Hardy, as I am persuaded you will remember,” he added as the plump, round-faced Alvanley stepped forward to make his bow to the duchess.

  “I remember, your royal highness,” Carolyn said, returning the Regent’s smile as he drew her away from the duchess, and hoping as she had hoped on earlier occasions that she would not somehow betray the mild contempt in which, like so many others, she had come to hold him. “I am flattered to think you would remember me among so many ladies of much greater beauty.”

  He responded gallantly, flirting with her, reminding
her by his attitude that he was known as the First Gentleman of Europe. A few moments later, when he observed Sydney some distance away and announced that he had one or two matters to discuss with him, she curtsied again and watched him walk away, thinking that he was growing fatter than ever but that his increasing bulk didn’t seem to distress him in the least. His manner was as elegant and polished as it could be.

  Indeed, she thought, so polished were the royal manners that it had been impossible to tell by their behavior that the Regent and the royal duchess were anything but friends, despite the fact that, as everyone knew, he rarely spoke to her, having taken offense at her refusal to associate with his mistress, Lady Hertford. For her part, the duchess was said to care little for any of the royal family, including her own spouse, who visited her only when he brought a party of friends to Oatlands to hunt or to play whist into the small hours of the morning.

  Carolyn, watching idly now to see if Sydney would offer the Regent his snuff box at once, was alone for only a moment before the Duke of York approached and said in his bluff voice, “You mustn’t think I had forgotten you, my pretty one.”

  She smiled at him. “I am not so conceited as to believe you ought to have remembered me, sir, particularly when your house is filled with so many other visitors.”

  He looked around as though he saw the large company for the first time. “Begad, so it is,” he said, “but pay them no heed. I shall not, nor shall my Freddie when she tires of their conversation. Both of us a bit queer in our attics, I daresay, though not so queer as Ernest there.” He indicated a man with bristling gray side-whiskers, wearing green regimentals, and a patch over one eye, who was watching them intently. “My brother Cumberland, you know. Can’t think why he’s even looking this way, since he ain’t generally one for the ladies, but perhaps he saw you talking to Georgie—the Regent, you know. He always wants what Georgie wants. Been like that from a child, poor fellow. But never mind him. I thought perhaps you might like to walk about with me a bit, perhaps see something of this place.”