Bath Scandal

by Joan Smith

  “Not yet. I’ll drop her a line before we leave.”

  “I’m glad we will get away before she hears, or she’d write forbidding it.”

  “Go and wash your face,” Southam said grimly. “You’re covered in dust. No wonder the duke has no interest in you.”

  “He has an interest in me. He calls on me more than anyone else.”

  “Aye, as a fellow horseman, but not as a suitor.”

  “What would I want a suitor for?” she riposted, and stalked out of the room.

  “That’s put a bee in her bonnet,” Southam said, and took up his cup to sip cold coffee. He was unhappy at the impression Gillie had left behind that he was completely under Deborah’s paw. Such nonsense! He did as he liked; it was just that Deborah was such a sensible lady and took such a strong interest in him and his family. He had never cared much for coffee anyway. As to Bournemouth, she wouldn’t object when she learned the reason. Deborah was all for advancing the family in the traditional ways, such as advantageous matches. She would be delighted to be related to a duke, and even more so to get Gillie bounced off.

  “What are we doing this afternoon?” he inquired.

  “Gillie and I will be preparing for this holiday.”

  “It won’t take long to throw a few gowns into a trunk.”

  “I see you have never traveled with a lady of fashion before, Southam,” she replied with another of those flirtatious glances that always sent his blood racing. “Your education is sorely inadequate. Gowns must be selected, pressed, packed in silver paper. Accessories must be chosen, probably new silk stockings purchased, for those that match one’s favorite gown are bound to have sprung a hole. Why, you will be fortunate if we are ready to leave by morning.”

  “Surely you are joking!”

  “Indeed I am not. You gentlemen who have only to pull on your blue jacket and run a brush through your hair have no notion how difficult it is for a lady to turn out in style.”

  “Such intensive efforts will leave you hungry. You must be planning to eat dinner at least. Let us go out for dinner.”

  “There is no point,” she said. “Tannie is dining with the McIvor’s. You are welcome to dine here if you are at loose ends.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “I did not wish to cramp your style, or I would have suggested it sooner.” Again those laughing green eyes studied him. “I thought you might have more interesting company.”

  “Now you are putting ideas in my head, Cousin.”

  “Ah, well, in that case you had best dine here, where Gillie and I can keep an eye on you. I would not want to be responsible for your going astray so close to your wedding.”

  “Sevenish?” he asked.

  “I usually dine at eight, but as you are still making the transfer from country hours, let us compromise and say seven-thirty.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  His bow, when he left, was less countrified than before. Or perhaps it was just his anticipatory smile that made it seem better.

  When she sat alone after his departure, Bea felt that if she had six weeks with Southam, as she was having with his sister, she could whip him into shape, too. But then, why should she go to so much bother for Deborah Swann?

  Chapter Seven

  “Rawl, you’ve got a new hairstyle!” Gillie exclaimed, when her brother entered that evening. His hair was clipped short and brushed forward.

  “My hair needed cutting. This is the way barbers do it in Bath,” he said. His eyes flew warily to Bea, who was examining him with interest.

  “The Brutus suits you,” she said. Her feminine intuition sensed his lack of ease and his unconscious turning to her for approval.

  “And you’re wearing a more stylish cravat,” Gillie added.

  “Scrumm bought it for me this afternoon. Trying to smarten me up. I daresay he is ashamed of me in my provincial garb. Next he will be sticking wadding in my shoulders and buying me top boots with a white edge.”

  “It looks nice. Does he not look nice, Aunt Bea?”

  “Very handsome,” she conceded. “Deborah will not recognize you when you return. And speaking of Deborah, there is a letter for you in the evening post. She sent it in my care, as she was unsure what inn you were putting up at.”

  When a servant brought the letter, she was surprised to see Southam stick it in his pocket unread. “It might be important, Southam,” she said.

  He took it out and read it. His countenance did not assume any air of excitement but only a certain rigidity about the jaws. Deborah wrote that she was sorry to upset him, but it had been necessary to dismiss one of his footmen. She had caught Tolliver stealing a bottle of Southam’s best sherry. He had tried to bam her that it was for Cook; Cook had supported him in this patent untruth. As Southam knew very well, Cook was not allowed to use the family drinking sherry for her cooking. Deborah had added two teaspoons of salt to the bottle, to insure that it was used for cooking and not for purposes of debauchery. She had told Cook that in future she must use only the cheap sherry for cooking, etc. Demmed interfering of Deborah! What the devil had she been doing at the house when he was away?

  “Not bad news, I hope?” Bea inquired.

  “Merely a domestic crisis. Deborah handled it.”

  “Which of the servants has she had a fight with now?” Gillie asked.

  “Don’t be impertinent,” he said curtly, and rammed the letter into his pocket.

  Gillie fastened a demanding pair of eyes on her brother. “I hope it wasn’t Abe or Elmer.”

  “Of course it wasn’t a groom. What would Deborah be doing in the stable?”

  “I wonder what she was doing at the house,” Gillie continued, then answered her own question. “Cook’s birthday! I expect you gave her Armitage’s birthday envelope to deliver.”

  In the confusion of his unplanned trip, Southam had forgotten this minor domestic celebration. He doubted Deborah had remembered it, either, but he knew now why the footman had been taking the bottle of sherry. The servants would have their own little celebration for Armitage. The sherry incident must have put a fine crimp in it. He’d have to apologize to Armitage. He’d send her a little something extra for her birthday and ask her to have the dismissed footman recalled. Deborah was only trying to be helpful, of course, but at times her help could be a demmed nuisance.

  “Exactly,” Southam said.

  It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he was lying, and that he was upset.

  Before Gillie caused any further deterioration in her brother’s mood, Bea changed the subject by calling for sherry. “You will observe, if you please, that I have taught your savage sister to sip her sherry without wincing,” she said, handing Southam a glass. “She demanded ale the evening she arrived.”

  “I still prefer it,” Gillie said, but she said it with a smile.

  The conversation turned to their holiday and continued on that subject through dinner. To push Gillie into the proper frame of mind, Bea said casually, “Sir Harold Whitehead and his mama called on me this afternoon. She mentioned that Mrs. McIvor hired a pianist for her dinner party. That would be to allow the youngsters to dance this evening, to throw Tannie and Miss Althea together.”

  “And she didn’t invite me!” Gillie said, not angry, but slightly miffed.

  As Bea knew perfectly well that the entertainment was to be a concert and doubted very much that either Duncan or Tannie would attend, she tried to smooth it over. “I believe she had her guest list made up a week ago. No doubt the dancing was a last-minute thing, when she learned Tannie was to attend.”

  Southam was more interested to hear that Sir Harold had been allowed to call, when he himself had been turned out. “I trust Sir Harold and his mama did not remain long enough to delay your packing for Bournemouth,” he said.

  “Only long enough to invite me to a card party tomorrow evening, which I, of course, was obliged to decline. I gauged their reaction closely when I explain
ed the reason. You will be happy to learn, Southam, you are considered completely harmless. No eyebrows rose—well, not more than an inch or so. Sir Harold harrumphed in displeasure, at which point I hastily inserted that Miss Pittfield would accompany us.”

  Southam was obliged, by Gillie’s presence, to hear this slight in silence. “Where is Miss Pittfield?” he inquired. “I have not seen her since my arrival.”

  “She dines with us when we are at home alone,” Bea explained. “She tells me she does not dine with company at Elmland. She seems to consider you company, Southam. She insisted on eating with the housekeeper this evening.”

  “Miss Pittfield came to us as a governess years ago. We consider her part of the family, but she stands high on her dignity. From time to time she takes these freakish notions.”

  “It began the day Deborah asked her whether she was paid,” Gillie explained. “Deborah told her that as she still receives a salary, she should consider herself a servant. In case you hadn’t noticed, Rawl, it is when Deborah dines with us that Miss Pittfield eats with the housekeeper.”

  Southam directed a quelling glare on his sister. “You are obviously mistaken. Deborah is not with us this evening.”

  Beatrice would like to have heard more of this. A hostess’s job was to maintain a pleasant atmosphere, however, and she dutifully changed the subject. “If you want to have a word with Miss Pittfield later, you will find her in the housekeeper’s parlor, chirping merry over this unexpected holiday.”

  “I trust her eyebrows did not rise, either, when you told her of it?” Southam asked.

  “She thought it an excellent idea. Do you a world of good, she said.”

  A few subtle hints let Southam know he was not to linger long after dinner. Phrases like “an early night before traveling” and “still a few things to pack” left him in no doubt. He took only one glass of port after dinner and planned to leave within a half hour of joining the ladies. He wanted a few moments alone with Bea before leaving, telling himself they had planning to do to hasten Gillie’s romance. Yet some deeper well of truth in him admitted that he also wanted a little flirtation. No harm in it. Mrs. Searle was an engaging lady. Why, a married man would do no less.

  When he went to the saloon, he was surprised and not at all pleased to see Sir Harold Whitehead ensconced in a chair, with Mr. Reynolds on the sofa beside Beatrice. Southam had made their acquaintance at the Upper Rooms, and said good-evening.

  “I was just telling Beatrice,” Mr. Reynolds said, “that I heard of her little trip—no thanks to Sir Harold. You should have told me, sly dog! I came to say farewell and urge her to return as soon as possible.” He turned to Bea. “No need to tell you, madam, that the town will be a desert without you.”

  “How did you hear of it, if not from Sir Harold or his mama?” she asked.

  “I daresay Sir Harold’s mama told her crones. Word is buzzing along the grapevine: hang up the knocker in crape, don your mourning bands. Mrs. Searle is leaving us.”

  Southam noticed that Bea smiled at this absurdity. How could she tolerate these old fools? He saw a box of bonbons sitting on the sofa table and a bouquet of flowers—farewell tributes from her swains. All this had the aroma of romance,

  “Next time I shall tell Mama to hold her tongue,” Sir Harold said, with a jealous eye at Reynolds.

  Reynolds, not to be outdone, began to pester Bea. “You have been to Brighton with Sir Harold; you are off to Bournemouth with Lord Southam; when am I to have the honor of making a trip with you, Beatrice?”

  “Why, as soon as you acquire a mama, or maiden aunt, or sister to chaperon us, sir. You cannot expect me to traipse off alone with a gentleman!”

  “Quite so, but that is not to say we could not take a dart to the coast, to Portishead or Avonmouth, some day and be home by evening.”

  “Portishead!” Sir Harold said disparagingly. “Is that your idea of an outing? I am surprised you don’t suggest touring the slums. What we ought to do is make up a party and go to visit the Lake District.”

  “An excellent notion!” Reynolds said. “You and your mama, Mrs. Searle and myself.”

  “And Mrs. Searle’s chaperon!” Bea added, laughing. “You are shocking Lord Southam, gentlemen. He will expect me to reach down and tie my garter in public, the way you natter on.”

  She gave them a cup of tea. As soon as this was taken, she summarily dismissed them. Southam was the last to go. Between Deborah’s letter and Bea’s beaux, he was in a vile humor and did very little to conceal it.

  “Where has Gillie taken herself off to?” he asked curtly.

  “She is having Miss Pittfield do her hair up in papers, to present a ravishing picture tomorrow.”

  “Just as well she missed that visit from your beaux. Are they accustomed to cluttering up your saloon in the evening?”

  Her eyes narrowed at his tone. “Why, no, they are not so inconsiderate. I more usually go out or have a larger party in for dinner. They came this evening to wish me a pleasant trip.”

  “Did you ever think of hiring a chaperon, Mrs. Searle?”

  Her green eyes flashed dangerously. “For your information, Southam, I am a chaperon. You have not forgotten, surely, that you sent your young sister to me. If you feel me competent to guide and protect her, then common sense must tell you that I can chaperon myself.”

  “I didn’t care overly much for the way those two old roués were speaking.”

  “Then you ought to have left!” she shot back angrily. “I am not about to take lessons in propriety from a provincial, even if he has a handle to his name. My friends are not roués; they are gentlemen. They would no more try to take advantage of me than they would dare to read me this lecture you are attempting to deliver. You were surly and rude throughout their entire visit. Whatever was in that letter you received, it is obvious it has upset you considerably. I pray you will get it straightened out before we leave for Bournemouth.”

  “This has nothing to do with the letter.”

  “Then what has it to do with? Are you criticizing my friends, my morals, what? If you feel I am not straitlaced enough to guard Gillie, then you may take her home, for I do not intend to change my ways to suit you. You are not even a relation, but only a slight connection through Leonard.”

  “It was only meant as a word of warning. I thought perhaps you did not realize ...”

  “Live all my life in Bath and not realize that tongues wag at the slightest hint of impropriety? Whatever I may choose to do in my private life, you may be very sure I give no cause for scandal. Now, if you will excuse me, Southam, I am tired. I have to speak to my housekeeper about managing the house while I am away.”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you, Cousin,” he said gently, for he knew her anger was justified. “You are quite right, of course. And I have no qualms about your guardianship of Gillie.”

  “Do you want a word with Miss Pittfield before leaving?”

  “I’ll see her tomorrow. There is no need to detain you further.”

  She accompanied him to the door, where she handed him his hat and gloves. As she was to be confined in a carriage with him for the better part of the next day, Beatrice wanted to patch up the little quarrel. “Was there bad news in your letter?” she asked in a more friendly tone.

  “Only a fracas over a bottle of sherry,” he said, shaking his head at the troublesome triviality.

  “I won’t suggest you are such a nipcheese as to salt the cooking sherry, thus forcing your servants to pilfer a bottle, so I conclude you have a tippler on your staff. They can be the very devil, but I am sure Deborah has given him a stiff lecture.”

  “Yes,” he replied as calmly as her words allowed.

  They made their adieux and parted friends. Southam was unhappy with his behavior. It was outrageous of him to complain of Mrs. Searle’s private life, when he had battened Gillie on her with no real excuse. No wonder she fired up at him. How her eyes had flamed! Still, it was a trifle fast, her running about here an
d there with gentlemen. Was she having an affair with one of them? That remark, let out in the heat of argument, about maintaining an air of propriety whatever she was doing, was ambiguous to say the least. Reynolds, he thought, had the inner track.

  Not much of a catch for the dashing Beatrice Searle. With her looks and charm she could do better for herself. Any gentleman would be proud to escort her. Some ladies were made for wives, and some were made for mistresses, and to him, Beatrice seemed the ideal mistress. Beautiful, certainly. A widow, therefore not a prude. They would be together at the inn for a few days. Gillie was sharing a room with Miss Pittfield, and Beatrice had a private room—next door to his own. On the surface, there was nothing to cause scandal. Beatrice boasted of her discretion. It almost seemed an invitation....

  Then he thought of Deborah and was unhappy with her behavior. She hadn’t used to be so demmed interfering. Surely Gillie was mistaken about her having spoken to Miss Pittfield about her paltry salary. Pittfield, though only a connection, was like a second mother to him. He felt badly about Armitage’s ruined birthday as well. Have to write that note off tonight and include a few extra pounds. Would his future life be peppered with such upsets? Deborah, as mistress of Elmland, was supposed to smooth matters on the home front, but since their betrothal it seemed he was constantly involved in minor domestic frictions.

  Mrs. Searle, Beatrice, ran a smooth and comfortable house. No salting of the sherry in her kitchen. Whoever decreed that comparisons were odious was right, but they were also inevitable, and for the first time since the advent of Deborah Swann into his life, Southam felt a doubt that he had chosen wisely.

  Chapter Eight

  The fifty-mile trip in Southam’s well-sprung chaise was pleasant. They drove through the spring countryside, with gently rolling hills and rich meadows enlivened by many villages. Until they reached Frome, the roads were busy, but as they approached the broad Vale of Blackmore, the rich pasturelands ahead were less traveled and promised fewer congenial inns, so they took lunch at Wincanton.