by Joan Smith
“Tunbridge Wells it is. Where will you transform yourself into a lady?” he inquired.
“Inside this carriage, right before your very eyes. A swish of the magic wand and, abracadabra, a young lady will appear.” She pulled off her hat, slid the blue bows from her hair and shook it out, while Whewett regarded her, smiling. She couldn’t unroll the band of her skirt while sitting, and the carriage was too small for her to stand up. She knelt on the floor and wrestled with it. “I have some idea how a dog feels, trying to catch his tail,” she complained, but finally succeeded and sat down.
“There goes my pleasure in the trip,” Whewett said. “Not another sight of the ankles all day.”
“I hope I have not run off with a gazetted flirt! Where are you hiding my slippers and bonnet, Whewett? You are a very slow magician’s helper.”
He pulled the slippers from the pocket pf the chaise, handed them to her, and looked with interest for another glimpse of the ankles while she put them on. She pulled a hand mirror from her reticule and instructed him to hold it while she combed her hair and pinned it up. It was difficult to do in a moving carriage, with only two inches square in which to see a corner of her face at a time.
“I shan’t attract even a gouty widower with my hair falling about my ears,” she said impatiently.
“There are bound to be a few blind ones in the lot,” he consoled her.
“Please move the mirror to the left so I may see the other side of my head. Oh, that’s worse than the other! I look hideous. You’ll be ashamed to be seen with me.”
“You look charming. I shall be proud to be your escort,” he said, tucking a loose curl up behind her ear.
“You must be one of the blind ones. Where are you hiding my bonnet? Let us hope it will cover this mess.”
“Right here,” he said, pulling it out of a paper, where his busy servants had concealed it. It had become crushed during its various peregrinations. Grace straightened it as best she could do and set it on her head, with a dubious eye on her escort.
“Well now, I am ashamed to be seen with that bonnet,” he said. “Could you give it a touch of your magic wand?”
“As a matter of fact, I could.” With a flourish she reached into her jacket pocket and brought forth the blue feather, its spine broken, so that it hung limply. “Oh, dear!”
“Can that wand make things disappear?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not.”
“We’ll try mine,” he said, and before she knew what he was about, he opened the window and picked up the bonnet.
“Whewett!” She stopped him and put the bonnet on.
“We know where our first stop must be. I trust Tunbridge Wells has a milliner’s shop,” he said.
“You’ll have to give me an advance on my pay.”
“The bonnet will be a bonus. Meanwhile, would you mind awfully to take off that thing you are wearing? It doesn’t do you justice.”
She pulled it off and tossed it aside. “Grandma looked pale this morning,” she said pensively.
“I wonder if she is feeling poorly. Those chest pains bother me.”
“She is old to be racketing around the countryside.”
“She only came to see where she was born, before she died, and to take home a few memories,” Whewett explained.
“I suppose that’s it. Phillips’s portrait of your wife is very nice. You will be happy to have it.”
“Yes, and Gussie will treasure the other things. She has very little recollection of her mother.”
“How did she die?” The blunt question was out before Grace realized it might prove a painful one for Whewett. “Or would you rather not talk about it?” she added uncertainly.
“I don’t mind. It was so long ago, it’s almost like a dream now. Irene was far advanced in pregnancy. She had a dizzy spell and fell from the top of the great staircase to the bottom. We lost the child, and she died. It would have been a boy,” he said in a quiet voice.
“It must have been horrible for you.”
“Yes. I was away at the time, on business. Just at Dover, but when I got back, she was already dead. The last time I saw Irene, she was alive and laughing. It is the way I like to remember her.”
Grace was ready to quit the subject, but Whewett continued his reminiscences. “Irene had a good deal of liveliness. She seemed little more than a girl herself when Gussie was born. Well, she was only nineteen at the time. Younger than you, Grace. Amazing to think she would be thirty-one now, if she were alive.”
“You loved her very much, I think,” she said softly.
“Yes.” His voice sounded far away.
“That was such a long time ago. As you never chose to marry in all that time, I expect you never plan to?”
Whewett looked at her, surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, at your age.... Oh, dear, don’t fall into sulks on me, Whewett. I forgot your sensitivity. I only meant that you are no longer young. I mean—”
“There is no point scouring your mind for a euphemism. The fact is, I am old.”
“I did not mean that! I only meant you would not have waited a decade to marry, that’s all.”
“I never actively looked for a wife, nor consciously decided not to marry, either. Naturally I want a son and heir. The right young lady did not happen to come along. At least—” He was smiling now, as though laughing to himself.
“What is the secret?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just remembering my foolish youth. I have an excellent memory. I can recall that far back,” he added.
“I am happy for you, elephant. A love affair, I take it?”
He hunched his shoulders. “An affair, at least.”
Grace threw up her hands in mock horror. “Please to remember, sir, you are traveling with an innocent child.”
“I’ll try to bear it in mind, Doll.”
“I am not your daughter today. Remember that, too, if you can.”
“Don’t overtax this ancient brain.”
They discussed their adventure, each claiming the worst of the bargain. “But I rather enjoyed it, and today is fine,” Grace said, as they drove into Tunbridge Wells. “Coming here with you reminds me of a trip Papa and I made to the Wells. He bought me a bonnet, too. Is that not a coincidence?”
As Grace was looking in her little mirror, she missed the scowl her thoughtless comment produced. Their first stop was a milliner’s shop. Whewett entered with Grace, directing the groom to stable the carriage at the inn.
Grace turned automatically to the plain round bonnets that would continue being useful to her as a governess. She set one on her curls and looked in the mirror without much interest or pleasure.
“Don’t you think one feather would not be overdoing it?” Whewett asked hopefully.
“Why not? He who pays the piper calls the tune. You select me a feather.” She ran an eye over the fancier bonnets, stopping when a high poke one with a pink ostrich plume caught her eye.
“Try this one,” he suggested, seeing where she looked. “It will give you a few inches.” She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting it. “Also a touch of chic,” he congratulated. “Not to imply you need it.”
“Gracious, no. There is nothing so elegant as a shiny serge suit. We want a chapeau worthy of it. I shall enjoy my one fling very well in this creation. Do you approve?”
“Very much.” Whewett was no critic of ladies’ fashions, but he knew the bright eyes and glowing smile of Miss Farnsworth were attractive. “If the pop-eyed lady from the coach could see you now!”
“Sempleton, simpleton. She has a name. Do you like the bonnet two guineas’ worth? Shocking, is it not?”
“Highway robbery. We’ll take it.”
The clerk hurried forward. “Charming.” She smiled.
“We think so,” Whewett said, drawing out his purse.
“We don’t get many men in the shop,” the clerk said. “I have always noticed the ladies buy more dashing bonnets when
their husbands are along. I’ll just put this in a box.” Behind the clerk’s back, Grace looked at Whewett and smiled.
“No, my—wife plans to wear it.”
“Then I shall put her old one in the box.”
“I didn’t wear a bonnet,” Grace confessed. The clerk stared in disbelief as she took the money.
“You would think I had gone in without a gown,” Grace said, laughing when they got outside the door.
“I made sure you would be complaining about her other outrage. Quite a leveler for you, being mistaken for my wife. You’ll be scrutinizing your face for wrinkles tonight.”
“I shall not! I’m afraid I would find them. We should have talked the clerk down a few shillings. Mrs. Bixworth always did.”
“You get what you pay for.”
“She would not have cut off the feather, stoopid!” Grace saw Whewett’s jaw drop open and exclaimed, “Oh, I’m sorry. I should not have said that.”
“It is always a pleasure to be insulted by a pretty woman. Doll used to call me a greenhorn when the merchants doused me.”
“Really? I would never have used such language to my father. I thought you said she was shy?”
“Doll, shy?” he asked, staring. Then with a conscious look added, “She is not shy of me, her father.”
“Lord Whewett, I think you have been conning me. Doll is not Augusta at all. Who is she?”
“Just a girl I knew once. You remind me of her at times, the way you toss your head when you are angry, and pout.”
She regarded him in a measuring way. “I cannot believe my ears. Here I have been thinking you next door to a saint. I could not be more surprised if you had just told me you were Jack Ketch.”
A touch of pink rose up from Whewett’s collar. “She was just a friend,” he said.
“A female friend for whom a gentleman buys things is often called another name. As you have just bought me a bonnet, however, we shan’t become too specific.” Grace shook her head and tsk’d. “I thought I knew you pretty well, too.”
Whewett yanked at his cravat, trying to appear nonchalant. “Shall we, ah, go to the springs now?”
“Yes, perhaps you can pick up a replacement for Doll, while I select my widower. A good thing I have my new bonnet to seduce him.”
“Watch your language, Grace.”
He offered his arm to cross the street, and she took it as calmly as she would have taken her father’s. It was not till they began walking that she realized how far she was from considering Whewett in loco parentis. A very different sensation came over her, in light of her new discovery. Whewett, despite his bland face and protective manner, was a flirt, and she had been entertaining him unchaperoned in her bedroom for the better part of a week.
Several ladies looked at Whewett with a lively eye as they walked. Not old ladies, either. They also glanced at Grace with interest. There was a look on those faces difficult to describe but easy enough to interpret. “What does he see in that dowdy little squab?” the look said. He seemed to grow taller and more elegant as they progressed. Grace squared her shoulders and looked back at the ladies with a haughty stare.
There were more than ladies on the street. She soon realized that gentlemen as well were observing her and Whewett. He, too, was aware of the new sensation. It felt good to be walking along with a pretty woman on his arm again. He had been foolish to let ten of the best years of his life slip by.
His fling was half flung; time was pushing hard at his back. He could feel it, but today, at least, he would live. A festive mood came over him, a mood to make a man do something foolish, like fall in love.
Chapter Twelve
They entered the Tunbridge Wells Pump Room and were confronted with such a plethora of gouty old gentlemen, presumably some of them at least widowers, that Grace gasped. “I feel like a very babe in here, amidst all this senility.”
“Charming,” Whewett answered. “It makes even me feel less senile. As we are here, let us try the water.”
“It will taste wretched. What a poor advertisement all these frail invalids are for the place. It is a nurse they require, not a wife.”
“Pick out the frailest of the lot, and you will be a rich widow in jig time.”
They found an empty table and ordered their water. While awaiting its arrival, Grace took up a pamphlet from the table and read about the spa. “ ‘Famous since the seventeenth century for its chalybeate springs,’ " she read. “What on earth would a chalybeate spring be?”
“No fountain of youth, from the looks of this crew.”
“There is more. ‘The waters were discovered by Lord North around 1625 and made popular by Queen Henrietta Maria, Queen Consort to King Charles the First.’ Have you ever heard of Queen Henrietta Maria? I am not acquainted with the lady.”
“I don’t recall the name, but I have always felt sorry for her husband, losing his head.”
“Ah, no wonder we have not met her about Wickfield. She is French. We might have known, with a name like that, she would be a foreigner. I should have thought Italian ... ‘Sister to Louis the Thirteenth.’ Was he the Sun King?”
“No, ignoramus, that was Louis Quatorze. You didn’t include history on the Bixworth curriculum, either? One wonders what they paid you a hundred pounds a year for.”
“For my running ability, chasing those two wenches. How do you think I got those ankles you are always ogling?”
“I thought they were a divine gift, like long lashes or curly hair.” His eyes lingered on her face as he spoke, and a smile curved his lips.
Grace felt disturbed at his examination and diverted him with a joke. “A pity my gifts stopped short of a dowry.”
The water came in two large tumblers. They sipped tentatively. Grace wrinkled her nose and set the glass aside. “I thought warm milk, just on the verge of turning, was the worst brew ever invented. I was mistaken. I have no opinion of Queen Henrietta Maria’s palate, I can tell you.”
“This has got to be good for you, it tastes so awful,” Whewett said, and drank a little more while Grace observed the patrons. “Have you picked out your prey?” he asked.
“I am undecided between the gentleman with the red nose and gray bagwig, and the little dandy who is ogling me through his quizzing glass. The bagwig is older and would stick his fork in the wall soon, leaving me a rich widow. I fear he is a drunkard, however, and might prove troublesome. The dandy is more elegant. He would be a tame pet, too. Which do you recommend?”
Before he replied, an aging female of formidable proportions advanced on the gentleman with the bagwig and sat beside him. “Now we know why the poor soul drinks,” Whewett said. “Your choice is made for you, unless you wish to engage in maneuvers with that battleship that just hoved into view.”
“I know when I am outclassed. It will be the dandy.”
“You’ll have easy pickings. He can’t keep his eyes off you. I believe women really do come here to pick up a patron.”
“It is a husband I am on the catch for, not a patron. Don’t hand me over without some haggling, Papa. Hold out for a handsome settlement. What sum do you feel we should ask, keeping in mind my elegant new bonnet?”
“Some things are beyond price.”
“True, and some men are so sly they can wiggle out of anything.”
When he made no answer, Grace looked to see what had caught Whewett’s interest. “If you tell me Mrs. Sempleton just walked in that door, I shall crawl right under the table. Is it her?”
“No, worse.”
Before he could explain, a young gentleman advanced toward them, smiling broadly. “Alfred, old bean,” he exclaimed. “Here’s a surprise.”
“Townsend, nice to see you,” Whewett replied, with ill-simulated delight.
“What the deuce brings you to this godforsaken dump?”
Grace examined the fashionable gentleman; he was in his late twenties or thereabouts. He was not handsome but gave some illusion of good looks despite thin cheeks and a weak mo
uth. He was a tulip of fashion in a well-cut jacket of blue Bath cloth, an elaborately-tied cravat, and a pink flowered waistcoat. A quizzing glass was just being raised to his pale eye, to have a closer scrutiny of herself, she feared.
“Just passing through,” Whewett answered vaguely.
This uninformative reply passed, as Townsend’s whole interest had settled on Grace. He was trying to figure out whether she was a lightskirt and he had caught Cousin Alfred out in an indiscretion, or whether she was a respectable lady. The suit said lady, but the bonnet caused doubts.
“What brings you here?” Whewett asked.
“Mama is having her annual dose of the waters. I got stuck to bring her. Papa cleverly takes to his bed to avoid it. It is a yearly event.”
Townsend returned his gaze to Grace. "I don’t believe I have the pleasure of the young lady’s acquaintance.” The eye that turned briefly to Whewett was alive with curiosity. There was mischief too—a look that accused and congratulated and laughed all at one time.
Whewett began rapidly canvassing his few options. “Miss Farnsworth, may I present my cousin, Mr. Townsend.”
“How do you do?” she said, blushing up to her eyes and giving Townsend the idea he had caught Alfred dead to rights.
“Miss Farnsworth,” Townsend repeated, making the words a request for more information.
“Of the Exeter Farnsworths,” Whewett added, choosing a district quite at random.
“Ah, the Exeter Farnsworths. Related to us?” Townsend asked, continuing his scrutiny of Grace.
“Connected to myself, on my wife’s side,” Whewett said.
“I see.” Townsend nodded, not seeing at all, and suspecting he was being fobbed off. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, and pulled out a chair before they could object.
Meeting Townsend was bad; knowing his mother, the redoubtable busybody, was in the vicinity was worse. “Actually we are just leaving,” Whewett said, rising up on the instant.
Townsend was grinning from ear to ear. “You’ve hardly touched your water,” he pointed out.
“Wretched stuff. Miss Farnsworth, shall we go?”
“No need to rush off,” Townsend said. “Since we are all here at Tunbridge Wells, let us arrange to get together. Lunch, perhaps? Mama is coming along any minute. She will want to meet Irene’s—cousin, is it?”