by Joan Smith
“You catch me hard at work, Lord Dammler. I am doing a portrait of Mr. Sykes—the brewer, you know. His face is a little red, but I will tone it down for him with white. He will have a nice genteel complexion when I am finished with him, he needn’t fear, and the symbol, you know, can be a spray of hops. There is no need to go putting a glass of ale in his hands. No one will connect it with ale—a spray of hops looks much like mulberry..."
“I came to see if you could tell me where I might find Prudence,” Dammler interrupted impatiently. “They tell me she is gone to Bath.”
“Yes, so she is. It was Seville’s idea. He talked her into it. They left this morning—set out in a carriage and four. They were to stay the night at Reading and continue the trip tomorrow.”
Dammler knew Clarence well enough to realize Prudence had not actually set out in a carriage with Seville, to stay the night at Reading. “Who went with her?” he asked.
“Her mother is with her, of course. She could not go with him alone.”
“Is Seville actually in her carriage, or she in his?”
“No, no, he went on a few days ahead. He is waiting for her there. And how did the rhyming go at Finefields?”
‘Well. She is not really with Seville then?”
“No, he dashed on a day ahead of her. She is meeting him there. He was very eager for her to go.”
“So you told me. Do you have her address?”
“Yes, she stays at Laura Place. I have it written down here somewhere.” But “here” proved to be not in the saloon, or study, or anywhere else he could remember. The butler came to his help. He had it written on a card for the purpose of forwarding mail, and eventually a copy of it was handed to Dammler.
Clarence supposed from Dammler's manner that he was in some rush, and it was not long dawning on him that the reason for urgency was jealousy. He was right for once, but could not keep his knowledge to himself.
“You will be trotting after them, will you?” he asked bluntly.
“Yes, I leave immediately. They stop at Reading, you say? Do you know which inn?”
“They stop tonight at Reading. They left at nine o’clock this morning. You will not catch them up at Reading.”
“I will if they stop the night. Do you have the name of the inn?”
No, he didn’t have the name, nor did the butler, there being no point in forwarding mail there, but he thought she had mentioned “The George.”
“You mean to drive all night then?” Clarence asked, well impressed with this eagerness.
“Yes.”
"Well, well. You are pretty anxious to catch up with her. This will put Seville’s nose out of joint, for her to land with you in her wake. A real marquis...“ The only thing as variable as the value of a Spanish title was the choice of husband for Prudence. Whichever man or name was before him was the best by a long shot.
“If it doesn’t, I will,” Dammler said tersely, and turned to go, his hat still in his hand, for in his haste, he hadn’t handed it to the butler.
“You mean to try your hand with her, do you?” Clarence confirmed, trailing him into the hall.
“Yes, certainly. I mean to marry her.”
“Well, well, I shall know what to tell Ashington if he calls.”
“Does that bleater still come around?” Dammler asked angrily.
“He is always chasing after her,” Clarence answered promptly, harking back to a time some weeks before. "But she has given him the slip. It is Seville who pesters her now. It is the Spaniard you must watch out for. There are queer knots in all foreigners, say what you will.”
Dammler returned to his apartment, exchanged his travelling coach-and-four for the faster curricle and his fresh team of greys, determined to be at Reading before morning, if he had to drive all night. He dined alone at home on cold meat and left at seven o’clock, tired even before he began the drive, from his trip from Finefields and his worries. It was nearing midnight when he pulled into “The George” at Reading, so tired he could hardly walk, and knowing he would not see Prudence before morning. He felt he had been a damned fool to come pelting after her in such haste. As he signed the register, he glanced to the names above his to see if she was there. He saw her neat signature, and her mother’s. The very sight of them cheered him, until his eye slid up a little higher on the page, and he saw the less pleasing sight of R. J. Seville, Esq., in a dark, bold hand.
His blood surged through his body until he was breathing faster. “I see a friend of mine, Miss Mallow, stops here. Would you be kind enough to give me her room number?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that Mr....“ The clerk glanced at the register. “Lord Dammler!” he shouted. “Oh...oh, well, in that case I'm sure it is all right. Miss Mallow is in the suite at the east end of the first floor.”
“And Mr. Seville? I notice he too is registered. Another—friend of mine.”
“He is next door to Miss Mallow.”
“How very convenient,” Dammler said in a controlled voice, and turned away to take the stairs two at a time, toward the door at the east end of the hall.
Chapter Sixteen
Prudence was so eager to be off to Bath that she scarcely closed an eye the night before, and was up at seven o’clock to check again her luggage to see if she had packed all her essentials, plus a good many items she suspected of being superfluous. But one couldn’t be sure of getting Gowland’s lotion and Longman’s soap at Bath, and it was best to be prepared. Clarence wouldn’t miss their taking off for the world. He put on his new blue coat of superfine to bid them farewell, and tied an Oriental for the occasion. He went outside to tend to the tying on of the trunks, and to let Mr. McGee next door have a look at his coat and cravat. He would later stop around to tell Sir Alfred that the ladies had got off bright and early. Mr. Sykes was not coming for his sitting till eleven o’clock. Very fortunate he had gentlemen lined up for the next few paintings. After that he would try his hand at a couple of country scenes in Richmond Park. It was the season for it. June might mean Bath or Brighton for most, for Clarence it meant three more landscapes of Richmond Park. Well, well, it would be good to have the place to himself again for a few weeks. Quite like old times.
At nine o’clock Prudence and her mother pulled away from the door and settled back to enjoy the luxury of getting away from Clarence, London, and the stale familiarity of home. It was a fine day. Once free of London they enjoyed the brisk trot provided by an extravagant team of four horses, and the view of emerald countryside, dotted with trees and flowers.
“We should do this more often,” Prudence said. “Now that we have a few pounds from my work to spare, we should go to Bath every spring.”
“Mr. Seville will not be there every spring,” Mrs. Mallow replied coyly.
“I certainly hope not! I am not going to because he is there, Mama. In fact, I hope he will have left before we arrive.”
“I don’t think that is very likely,” her mother laughed, rather complacently. She was glad to be getting Prudence away from London and her memories of Lord Dammler. Impossible that that would ever come to anything but heartbreak.
Strangely, Prudence did not mind in the least that both Clarence and her mama thought she was running after Mr. Seville as hard as she could. Had they inferred for a single moment she was flinging herself at Dammler's head, she would have been incensed, but to their little jokes about Seville she was impervious. They had a pleasant nuncheon between London and Reading, and remounted for the afternoon’s journey, and both felt themselves fortunate to be lurching along in a quaint old vehicle twenty years old, with four fast-tiring nags to pull it, to a fashionable resort for a four week stay in rented rooms hired sight unseen at a low cost. Their spirits were still high when they arrived at "The George” in Reading in good time for dinner. They took a walk to stretch their limbs before eating, and splurged on hiring the smallest private parlour in the establishment for dinner. Breakfast they would take in their room. There must be some limit to
their high living they agreed.
But for this one meal there was no limit. They ordered two courses and a small bottle of wine. As Prudence was treating herself to buttered lobster, Mrs. Mallow too decided to be daring and order up a dish of oysters. She thought they had a funny taste; but since Clarence never served oysters, the sensation was new, and so she said they were delicious and forced herself to eat every one, as Prue was paying such an exorbitant sum for them. Before the sweet was served she felt ill, and before she managed to wobble to her bed she was sure she was dying. She wished she would die and get it over with. She was weak, terribly sick, with a cold sweat over her whole body and an ache in every joint and muscle.
Prudence became alarmed, and dashed to the desk downstairs to enquire for a doctor.
"There’s Mr. Mulcahy who sometimes comes to tend patrons,” she was told. His address was looked up in a desultory and condescending manner.
“Send for him—please, at once!” she said.
“We don’t send for the physician. You must do it yourself, ma’am,” the clerk said.
“I cannot leave Mama. She is very ill.”
“You have servants, I presume?” the man sneered. He had no opinion of young females in cambric gowns who ran about inns unescorted.
“Yes—oh yes,” she answered, chastened, and hurried halfway upstairs before recollecting that the groom was the proper person to go on such an errand. She asked timidly if someone would please fetch the groom—Jenkins was his name.
With a disdainful lift of his eyebrow in her direction, the clerk wrote a few lines before summoning a footboy to help out the young—lady. He didn’t quite dare say person; there was just something about Miss Mallow that did not permit the slighting reference. Prudence dashed back to her mama and waited for what seemed an eternity for the physician to come, while her mama retched and moaned and writhed in pain. At length, Prudence could stand it no longer, and ran again to the clerk’s desk. Her groom was just returning—alone. The doctor was gone to Bath himself on a holiday.
“Oh—what shall I do?” she wailed. “Whatever shall I do? There must be another doctor in Reading.”
The door of a private parlour opened, and a tall gentleman dressed in the first fashion came out. Upon seeing Miss Mallow, his first thought was to dart back into the parlour and close the door, but when he observed her agitation, he stepped nobly forward to involve himself in her problem.
“Miss Mallow—my dear Miss Mallow—what is the matter?” Mr. Seville asked in alarm. Returning from Bath to London, he too stopped at “The George” to break his trip.
“Mr. Seville! How glad I am to see you!” she said. He feared she was about to throw herself on his bosom in a fit of tears. The dreadful thought struck him that the hussy was staging a scene to ensnare him, but her agitation soon freed him from that worry.
She told him her story in a distracted manner, breaking into sobs in the middle of it. “You great thundering cloth-head,” Seville turned on the clerk in wrath. “You know perfectly well Dr. Knighton is put up at this very inn. Summon him at once!”
The clerk, seeing Miss Mallow was “connected,” as he politely phrased inferior persons who knew superior ones, became more civil. “He particularly asked not to be disturbed,” he said, but with an eye already running over the ledger to discover his room.
“Get him at once, moron,” Seville shouted. “Give him my name.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk bowed meekly, and ran up the stairs himself to summon the doctor. Seville and Miss Mallow too ascended to the sick lady’s room. Within three minutes Knighton had arrived with his black bag, administering magic liquids and reassuring words of hope.
“This is not the first case I’ve had tonight,” he said. “There was bad food served here. Shellfish, I fancy, is the culprit. Did your mother eat oysters, Miss Mallow?”
“Yes, she did.”
“That’s it. They are the cause. Mrs. Dacres had them, too—thought they tasted odd, and ate only two. She was not nearly so ill as your mother. I have already told the proprietor to take them off the menu. We will pull your mother through, never fear. I think she has rid herself of them all. She was sick to her stomach, you say?”
“Yes—dreadfully,” Prudence answered.
“Good. Good, the sicker the better. We want to make sure they are all out. I’ll administer a saline draught.”
There was a great bustle and commotion. Knighton sent for his valet who came with more chemicals. Miss Mallow hovered about the bed, then went into the adjoining room, her own room, to talk to Mr. Seville, to assure him and be assured by him that all would be well with Dr. Knighton on hand. So very fortunate he had been there.
At length the invalid was settled down, her stomach purged of poison, a draught administered to calm her, but no laudanum. Knighton thought it best that she remain with normal consciousness, lest any severe pain occur later. It was nearing ten before he left, only to be called away to another oyster eater, caught before the warning was out. “I shall look in on your mother again before I retire,” Knighton promised Prudence.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said with deep gratitude. “I don’t know what we should have done without you. Be sure to send me your bill.” She began to write out her address at Bath.
“It is an honour to serve the creator of The Composition and such books,” he said. “I read all your works and like them immensely. In fact, I shall tell you a little secret. The Prince of Wales likes them, too, and means to have you to visit him. They were recommended to him by his mother, Queen Charlotte. She allows her daughters to read them. It is unusual to find a novel suitable for young ladies that is still entertaining,” he laughed. “In fact, I should not be surprised if you are given permission to dedicate your next to the Prince. And in lieu of a bill, I shall request you to autograph my copies when you return to London.”
“I shall be very happy to,” she said, staring at him with a smile of great delight on her face. The Prince of Wales—Queen Charlotte! To think of the Royal Family reading her stories, and liking them!
After Knighton had bowed himself out, she turned to Seville. “Dear me, what an honour. I did not expect anything like this.”
“It is not in excess of your merits,” he bowed formally. For a moment he regretted his opera dancer. Miss Mallow, as he had been one of the first to divine, was on her way up in the world.
“Indeed it is! I never looked for such honour. To dedicate a book to the Prince Regent! It is beyond anything great.”
“You are too modest. Dr. Ashington had high praise for your works in that fine review he did last month.”
She acknowledged this praise with an external smile and an inward sneer. "This is not the time to be wallowing in my own glory,” she reminded herself. “I must go to Mama. How can I ever thank you for your kind help, Mr. Seville? I should have been lost without you. Only think, a physician at the inn all the time, and the clerk not telling me. Mama might have died for all he cared."
“I mean to speak to the proprietor about that. Serving tainted food, and then doing nothing to help the victims. Maintain a haughty and injured manner, Miss Mallow, and at the very least you will have your stay without expense.”
“I should never have thought of that,” she said, but once it was mentioned, it seemed a good idea, and no more than was her due.
“You are not up to snuff at all,” Seville told her. Looking at her tired, wan little face, he came at last to believe it. Here she stood in her bedroom alone with a man, seeing no more impropriety in it than if they were at a ball. The fear that she was trying to trick him here at the inn had long since faded. “I shall go down and speak to the proprietor at once. Demand anything you want of the inn—don’t fear the cost. You will be staying a few days till your mama is recovered, and shan’t pay a cent for it. I’ll look in before I retire, after Knighton’s visit, to see all is well for the night. Your servant, ma’am.” He bowed and left, and put such a bee in the owner’s ear that he w
as all for removing Miss Mallow and her mother that very moment to the best suite in the inn.
With all restored to peace and quiet—Mama sleeping soundly in the next room with the servant standing guard and the most famous doctor in the country coming later to check her—Prudence allowed herself a few moments to consider her latest achievement. She was to be recognized by the ruler of the land. Possibly to dedicate her next book to him. She had arrived! She knew Miss Burney and Wordsworth and Coleridge, Dr. Ashington had reviewed her in Blackwood’s Magazine, the king’s physician admired her and wanted an autograph instead of her money. Her cup was overflowing, or should be. But the contents came all from one side—on the personal side it was empty. The contents of the other side were filling a suite at Finefields, and showing no intention of leaving it. She sighed, and took up a paper to read till Knighton returned.
It got to be eleven o’clock, then eleven-thirty, and still Knighton did not come. Seville tapped at the door and asked if he had been yet. “No, and I am so sleepy. I wonder if he means to come.”
“Yes, he said he would come. I'll order you a cup of tea to keep you awake,” Seville said, and went to do so. When he returned, Knighton had just arrived. He was with Mrs. Mallow, and found she progressed satisfactorily.
“She will be weak for a few days. I don’t advise you to move her before two days. I leave tomorrow, but I’ll give you the address of a local physician. Mention my name, and he will be happy to come at a moment’s notice.”
“Thank you. You are so very kind.” What a difference it made, being somebody. She was quite struck with it. Being somebody with a potential lawsuit to hold over the inn brought her another surprise. The “cup of tea,” when it arrived a little later, proved to be a feast comprising everything in the inn’s larder but sea food. There were meats and cheeses, breads, fruits, and a sweet.
“Oh, they have brought a meal” she laughed. “You must stay and join me, gentlemen.”
Knighton accepted a cup of tea, and Seville too sat down. When Knighton left a little later to check up on Mrs. Dacres, Seville saw no harm in sitting on a moment while Prudence ate. There is something about a calamity that lowers the barriers ordinarily pertaining in society. And there was her mother right next door, too. He mentioned opening the door, but Prudence objected that the noise might disturb her mother.