‘No, I don’t, but I intend to from now on.’
Zanthe was unsure of the etiquette involved in visiting the mistress of the man one wished to marry, but of this she was certain—one wore one’s most becoming gown and bonnet. Therefore, she had her maidservant lace her into a new, never worn creation, in the certainty that it could compare with anything the Signora might have picked up on her way through France. It was an elaborate confection comprising a dusky-blue, twilled-silk overdress with long sleeves puffed at the shoulder with slashes, Renaissance style, through which a glimpse of ruffled gauze could be seen. The hem was thickly appliquéd with a design of garlanded vine leaves, in the same heavy silk, embellished with white cord. Cascading satin ribbons fastened the over-dress, which covered a delicate slip of white Indian muslin. A triple frill of lace formed a ruff to frame her face, and the whole was topped by a bonnet of dark blue satin tied under the ear with satin ribbons and adorned by a wreath of cream-coloured silk-flowers. She dimpled at her reflection in the mirror and wondered aloud what Mama-in-Law would say if she could see her. But then, Mama-in-Law would comprehensively disapprove of everything she had done since the moment she arrived in Bath, so there was really no point in worrying about the suitability of her clothes.
Feeling that the stipulation that she should come alone was not meant to apply to her maid, this damsel accompanied her to Pulteney Street, a brisk ten-minute walk. It was a pleasant, sunny morning, with a fresh breeze blowing the scents of the countryside into the streets and covering those less appealing smells that tended to drift over from the poorer parts of the city.
The Signora had her apartments in one of the tall houses in Pulteney Street, which, in Bath’s heyday, had been the mansions of the aristocracy. Now split into lodgings, they were still elegant and considered perfectly genteel for those persons visiting Bath for only a short time and unwilling to take a lease upon a house.
Leaving her maid attempting to flirt with the unresponsive porter, Zanthe ascended the stairs to the first floor, where she knocked, not without some inner nervousness, upon the door and waited. Quite what she expected, she was not sure; but when the door opened within a few moments of her knocking, she was greeted by a perfectly ordinary English maidservant who bobbed a curtsey and said that the Signora was expecting her and would she please come through.
She was ushered into a large drawing room, the blinds lowered against the sunshine, and as her eyes adjusted to the sudden dimness, she was addressed.
‘Lady Brookenby, welcome. I am so very happy.’
‘Thank you for your kind invitation, Signora.’
‘Sit, please sit. You will take some refreshment?’
‘No, I thank you.’
‘Ah, you do not wish to—what is the expression—eat my salt. We are enemies, you think. But it is not so. I am no enemy of yours. I am your greatest friend!’
Zanthe could not help laughing. ‘I am delighted to hear it, Signora.’
‘I can help you, believe me, I can help you with the stupid Jarvis. But first, we must come to business. When do you wish for me to sing?’
‘We await your convenience, Ma’am, for you are the main attraction, you know.’
‘True, it is always so. Very well. Today is what—the twentieth of the month?’ She leaned forward and rang a little silver bell. The maidservant reappeared. ‘Ask the Signorina to bring me the book.’
They sat for a moment in silence. Zanthe was covertly studying the older woman. She decided that there was no real necessity for her to lower the blinds. Her ivory complexion was unlined, and there was no hint of sagging around the lovely line of her jaw. She wore an opulent gown of rich, flame-coloured velvet that displayed her creamy throat, bosom, and upper arms, which blazed with bracelets of heavy gold set with yellow topaz and tourmaline. The thick coils of her hair had been thrust carelessly on top of her head and held in place with amber combs. She looked as exotic as a denizen of the Amazon rainforest, and as though she had just come from the arms of a lover. Zanthe’s heart sank to her little kid boots. How could she compete with this glorious creature?
Just then, the door opened once more, and a young girl entered quietly, a heavy, leather-bound book in her arms. She was dressed with the greatest propriety in primrose-yellow sprigged muslin and wore her dusky locks in demure ringlets, but her relationship to the older woman was apparent. La Signora confirmed it.
‘Susanna, cara mia, make your curtsy to Lady Brookenby.’ As the girl obeyed with particular grace, she waved a hand towards her and said, ‘May I present to you my daughter, Miss Fallowfield?’
Zanthe’s eyes widened in surprise as she held out her hand. ‘How do you do?’
The girl just touched it. Her eyes were lowered as she said in a soft, sweet voice, ‘How do you do, Lady Brookenby.’ She then sat down beside her mother on the sofa and, together, they perused the volume.
Eventually, the Signora placed her forefinger upon the page and exclaimed ‘Buono, I say I shall sing for you this concert in one month’s time, on Thursday, the twentieth of June, at eight o’clock precisamente. It is my giorno della nascita, my birthday.’
‘That would be perfect. Mr and Miss Cholmondeley will be so pleased.’ She rose to take her leave.
‘No, sit, please sit. I have more I wish to say to you. Susanna, leave us.’
The child dropped a curtsy and left the room as quietly as she had entered it. The Signora flashed her eyes at Zanthe and laughed. ‘Ah, it is a mystery, yes? How do I, the wicked fallen lady from Napoli, come by this little English daughter, you wonder?’
‘Not at all, Signora. It is no business of mine.’
‘But yes! I wish it to be your business. Listen!’ She stood and walked over to the mantelpiece, where she picked up a miniature that stood on a little gilt stand. She smiled down into the painted countenance and then handed the miniature to Zanthe, who took it wonderingly. ‘That is a portrait of the Honourable Mr Richard Fallowfield,’ the Signora said in accents of purest cockney. ‘My husband.’
Zanthe was so surprised she almost dropped the miniature. ‘You are English!’
The Signora laughed again. ‘Born and bred in the slums of Whitechapel, my Lady. More years ago than I care to remember. But my Dickie married me, right and tight, for all that.’
‘Fallowfield? Was he any relation of Lord Fallowfield?’
‘His brother. And that makes my little girl his legal niece. For Dickie married me six weeks before she was born, and that makes her legitimate, whatever his high-and-mighty Lordship may have to say.’
Zanthe gaped at her, helplessly. ‘I am honoured by your confidence, Ma’am, but I am at a loss to understand—does Launceston know of this?’
‘Well, of course, he does. I can’t keep on talking Italian all day and all night, can I? It’s far too fatiguing. But he’s the only one—apart from my manager in Italy and—my confessor.’
‘But Susanna—Miss Fallowfield, I mean—surely—?’
‘No. She’s been at school here in Bath since she was a nipper. That’s why I come over every summer to sing. I spent the war years touring: St Petersburg, Stockholm, even Boston. I couldn’t have her with me. So, the truth is we don’t know each other very well. She thinks we come of an aristocratic Neapolitan family that lost everything in the recent wars.’
‘But, forgive me, Ma’am, why are you telling me all this? You are taking a terrible risk are you not? What if I were to spread the tale?’
The Signora shrugged. ‘Who would believe you? Besides, I’ve only to look into your pretty eyes to know you’re not that sort. No, the likes of you would be torn apart by wild horses before you’d betray a confidence.’ She reached out and placed her hand over Zanthe’s. ‘We can help each other, you and me, Lady Brookenby. See, I’ve got what you want, and you’ve got something I want.’
‘What is that?’
‘Respectability. Oh—not for me—for my girl.’
‘I still don’t quite see—’
/> ‘I want you to take Susanna to live with you. Introduce her around. Ten to one, she’ll get an establishment by the end of the summer.’ She saw Zanthe about to protest. ‘I’m not asking you to present her at Court or anything like that. I just want her to marry some nice, well-bred young fellow that’ll look after her. I can settle any amount of money on her, you know’
‘I see. And, if I do this, you will give Lord Launceston his congé?’
‘Now, how would that help you? He’d just leave Bath and ten-to-one have some lightskirt in keeping before the cat can lick her ear.’
‘Then how do you propose to help me. For that, as I understand it, is the bargain.’
The Signora regarded her shrewdly. ‘Just how far are you willing to go to get him back?’
‘As far as is necessary.’
‘And you’ll follow my advice, whatever it is?’
‘What do I have to lose?’
‘Then we’ll get him for you—poor old Jarvis. He doesn’t stand a chance.’
Six
The Brookenby ladies’ alliance with the Cholmondeleys was now a settled thing and, although Zanthe could have foregone Miss Cholmondeley’s frequent visits with equanimity, she grew very fond of the Reverend. Once one penetrated beneath his shyness, he was revealed to possess a keen intellect and a good deal of quiet humour.
Plans for the concert went on apace, but more direct acts of charity were not forgotten. Zanthe frequently made excursions into the meaner parts of town with the pair and was astonished to discover that, in a very few minutes, they could be out of the gracious, elegant streets and crescents and into the teeming slums.
One morning, the brother and sister called upon the ladies in the Royal Crescent with a proposal to visit a family in whom the Reverend had an interest. These were not of the criminal or venal classes but hard-working, worthy people who had fallen into unfortunate circumstances.
‘Critchlow was a journeyman carpenter in a good way of business until he lost his hand in an accident with a faulty lathe,’ he explained. ‘Since then, they have had to move out of their cottage and into lodgings that are not at all what poor Mrs Critchlow has been accustomed to. She was a seamstress before her marriage and takes in a little sewing; but her customers are as poor as she is, and it cannot bring in much. However, she does not complain.’
Zanthe was touched by this story. ‘What a dreadful shame! By all means, let us visit them and see what can be done.’
The Critchlows resided in a mean, cobbled side-street, much cluttered with refuse. The tiny house, however, was scrupulously clean, and the two children, who stared shyly at their visitors, were plump and neat. Their mother, however, was so thin that it seemed probable that she had starved herself to feed the children.
She came forward, wiping her hands upon her apron, and dropped a slight curtsy.
‘Well, Reverend, ladies, it’s right good of you to come to see us. I just wish I’d known an’ I would ’ave baked a bit and had something nice for you to taste.’ She spoke in a soft West Country voice but broke off to cough into a handkerchief. The whole of her thin body was wracked by the paroxysm.
Mr Cholmondeley regarded her gravely, ‘Martha, I see you still have your cough. I had hoped this delightful warm weather would have helped you.’
‘Oh yes, Sir, it has. But there’s always one thing or the other. When it’s cold, then I cough real bad, but when it’s warm like today, why the smell out on that street is enough to send a body sick, it is really, Sir.’
Zanthe could not but agree. It must surely be unhealthy to breathe such foul air into ailing lungs. And bad for the children, too, although they looked robust enough.
‘Where is Critchlow? I had wanted a word with him? Is he not usually home for his dinner at this time of day?’
Mrs. Critchlow shook her head. ‘Not these days, Reverend. He lost that job you got him wi’ the carrier ‘cos ‘is hook tore a bundle and ruined some fine cloth as they was transporting. You can’t blame them, but since then he’s out all hours lookin’ for work. It fair breaks my heart to see him come ‘ome that tired and discouraged. It ain’t fair that a man as is willing to work can’t get none. He’s bin talkin’ of us goin’ up north Manchester way so me and the children can find work in them mills they have up there, but to my way of thinking it ‘ud just be changing one bad lot for another.’
Zanthe was appalled. ‘No, no, you cannot do that! Why, the conditions in those places are dreadful. You must not go to another big, smoky city. You need fresh air. I must think what is to be done.’
Although she had always been ready to succour the needy who belonged to the Baguely estate, Zanthe had not previously given much thought to the living conditions of the working poor in cities. It would be a huge task to clear these slums and make life better for the inhabitants, but they could at least offer assistance, one family at a time.
‘We must find Mr Critchlow another situation but, in the meantime, please take this.’ She thrust her purse into the woman’s hand. ‘Mr Cholmondeley tells me you are a seamstress, and so Miss Brookenby and I will procure some sewing work for you among our friends, which will soon make you very much more comfortable.’
They were about to take their leave when the door opened and the master of the house entered, bending his head to avoid knocking it on the low door frame. Like his wife, Mr Critchlow had the air about him of one who has seen better days. He bowed civilly to the ladies and shook Mr Cholmondeley’s proffered hand, wiping his own left hand upon his breeches before clasping the other man’s awkwardly. ‘It’s good of you to take the time, Reverend.’
‘I was sorry to hear about you being laid off again, Critchlow. Unfortunate about your—your—er—’
Critchlow lifted his right arm to display a steel hook. ‘My ‘ook, Sir? Aye, ripped a pack of fine cotton to shreds, I did. Terrible put out the master was, an’ I’m sure I don’t blame ‘im. The thing is, I’m not used to it yet.’ He sighed and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Poor Martha here sez we should give ‘im the value of it but, bless you, it ‘ud take years to pay off, even if I had a job to earn the money.’
‘Well, that is easily resolved,’ said Mr Cholmondeley. ‘Give me his direction, and I shall settle it for you.’
‘Nay, Sir. I couldna’ let you do that!’
Since nothing they could say would induce Mr Critchlow to agree, Zanthe could only hope that the sewing she could send out and induce other ladies to send out to Martha would enable them to become beforehand with the world once more.
When Critchlow heard of the arrangement, his eyes filled so that he turned his head away to wipe them with his muffler before saying, ‘Bless your sweet face, my Lady. An’ if the day should come when you or yours is in need of any ’elp that the likes of us can give, well, me an’ my rib, we’d be right proud to do ought we could. An’ that’s the truth, so ‘elp me.’
The Critchlows followed them to the front door, and they stood chatting for a few moments on the doorstep. Presently, they were interrupted by a good deal of cheering, loud laughter and coarse, ribald language, which caused Zanthe and Margery to blush but left little Miss Cholmondeley quite unmoved. The sounds were coming from the open door of an inn that sat upon the corner where the little side-street met Avon Street. A dilapidated sign hanging above the door depicted a large black bird, a rook or raven by the look of it, but the lettering was too faded to be legible.
‘What place is that?’ demanded Zanthe curiously.
‘That be the Bird in Hand, my Lady. A terrible bad place! An’ what goes on there I wouldn’t let on to a lady like you if my life depended on it.’
Zanthe took a step further into the street and craned her neck, much intrigued by this condemnation. Just as she did so, a familiar figure staggered out of the doorway of the Bird in Hand and reeled into the street.
‘Parry!’
‘Hello, Zan. What you doing here?’ her brother demanded, frowning. ‘Not the kind o’ place for
you at all. Not the thing!’
‘Never mind what I’m doing. I know very well what kind of place that is, and—’ A sudden thought occurred to her. ‘Was this where you got so odiously foxed that Sunday when Launceston carried you home? Does he go there often—is he there now?’
‘No—haven’t seen him this age. Nothing to upset yourself with, Zan. Just been watching a famous match, fight of the century! Rattie the Rat versus Freddie the Ferret. Laid my money on Rattie to take first blood and, by God, he was a little bruiser! Won a pony, I did. Ferret got him in the end, of course.’
‘Won a pony?’ Zanthe was quite bewildered by all this talk of rats, ferrets, and ponies. ‘Where shall you keep it? There is no room in the stables for another animal.’
Critchlow chuckled. ‘The young gentleman means he won a matter o’ twenty-five guineas, my Lady. They’ve been setting rats an’ ferrets to fighting in the back yard.’
‘Yessir, I did! Pleasure to meet such a knowing one. Give me your hand, Sir.’
The rickety inn door opened once more, and a group of men strolled out. The tallest, who seemed also to be the most sober, was smoking a cigar and leaned negligently against the door jamb, watching one of his companions being violently ill in the gutter.
‘I told you not to touch the brandy,’ he commented.
Parry turned from wringing Critchlow’s hand and called out, ‘Duke, Duke, old feller, come and meet my sister.’
Zanthe was very taken aback. ‘That man is a duke?’
‘No—Duke ain’t a duke, he’s a baronet.’
‘Then why do you call him Duke?’
‘’Cos it’s his name, silly.’
The gentleman thus hailed threw his cigar into the street, trod it with his heel, and advanced upon the little group. ‘This is your sister, Parry? I am quite charmed.’
Zanthe shrank back a little, misliking the look in the gentleman’s eyes. Rather to her surprise, Mr Cholmondeley, who, with his sister, had been tactfully silent during Parry’s incursion, stepped forward as if to shield her from the other man. The tall man looked down upon Mr Cholmondeley with a sneer.
A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance Page 4