The Wicked Guardian

by Vanessa Gray

  “Not at all, my dear. Whatever you ask me to do,” she said rashly, “I shall agree.”

  “Then let us go to Bath and stay. I am sure your sister will be so glad to have you home again that she will not cavil over me.”

  “Bath!”

  “With Budge, of course. Do say yes, Peeky. I vow I do not wish to spend another night in this gloomy, damp place!”

  It took some persuading, but Miss Peek herself secretly did not relish the idea of sharing her bedroom for six weeks or more with Clare. And it was in fact much too damp to air another room properly, and the damaged ceiling would be weeks in drying out.

  At length it was settled, so that the carriage was ordered for just after luncheon, and while Miss Peek packed and gave orders to the servants as to how to go on during their absence, and while Budge alternately packed Clare’s clothes with vigor and wailed at the thought of leaving Penryck Abbey, Clare herself sat down at her little gold-and-white writing desk and drew out paper and pen. “My dear Lord Choate,” she began after much pondering, “I beg leave to tell you of the dire catastrophe that has struck Penryck Abbey. A veritable flood has damaged it so that it is quite impossible to continue to live here. I must ask you to direct Mr. Austin to see to the needful repairs. I am persuaded that you need only instruct your man of affairs to deal with things, and that you need not then give another thought to the problem. Believe me, I do appreciate all the time and trouble you have already expended on me, and I should be loath to add to your burdens, especially since you are about to become very happy. On your wedding day, I mean, of course.”

  She tapped her pen on her teeth while she read what she had written. Satisfied that she had put him in possession of enough facts to pique his curiosity, and no more, she added the final touch.

  “If it should be needful, I should tell you that your man of affairs can reach me in care of Miss Peek, Milsom Street, Bath.”

  She folded the letter, ready to send. That ought to do it, she thought with great satisfaction.

  17.

  Clare could never tire, she believed, of walking along the Royal Crescent, looking at the elegant buildings that were inspired by Beau Nash, the guild hall, the assembly rooms, Queen Square, the North and South parades, and watching all the fashionably dressed ladies and the ailing dowagers and gouty old men who daily sought relief in the baths.

  Several buildings encompassed the various mineral springs, of varying temperature and curative powers. The waters were said to be very beneficial in cases of gout, rheumatism, neuralgia, diseases of the liver, and sciatica.

  Even though one was as healthy as a horse, there was a wealth of things to do in Bath, but all the assemblies and the card parties were forbidden to her. She recognized the truth of Choate’s statement. Bath is a hotbed of intrigue, he had said, and he feared for her reputation.

  He need not have worried, she thought glumly. She knew that Miss Peek’s chaperonage, while adequate, yet did not admit her to the first society in Bath, nor could she have taken advantage of such introductions had she had them, for she was still in mourning.

  But she learned that one’s health provided the only excuse required for frequenting the Pump Room, drinking the ugly-tasting waters, and strolling through the Assembly Rooms in the morning.

  The afternoons could be taken up with shopping, visits to mantua-makers, milliners, glovers, and other establishments catering to feminine fancies. Clare herself had no need to go far afield, for Milsom Street held two milliners, a bootmaker, and a confectioner. But only once did she enter the milliner’s shop just below the Peek sisters’ rooms.

  She was torn between a bonnet with a great tall brim, lined with pleated silk to hold it stiff, and a smaller hat in the French style with curling feathers in a most fetching arrangement. There was another ... But it was no use. She could not make up her mind, and truly there was no reason to buy a new bonnet, for she could not wear it for months.

  She expected Benedict to arrive in Milsom Street any hour, and she dared not be from home for any length of time. Besides, she could not quite decide which hat Benedict would like, and when she realized that she was shopping entirely with him in mind, she abruptly walked out of the shop and did not return.

  Benedict did not come the first day she expected him, nor the second. On the third, she took Budge with her and walked out upon the streets of Bath. She walked through Queen Street, and strolled aimlessly toward Pulteney Bridge. Looking back from the banks of the Avon, she could see the square-topped building that housed the springs themselves, and, to her surprise and dismay, strolling in front of the Pump Room were Lady Courtenay and Evalina.

  There was no escaping them. “How delightful to see you,” said Lady Courtenay. “I confess I had not expected to see you again until next year.” She lowered her voice. “Mourning, of course.”

  “That is true,” said Clare demurely, “but my companion, Miss Peek, has felt not quite the thing, you know, and I persuaded her that she should come to Bath to take the waters.” Having cast truth aside thus far, she plunged on. “So of course I had to come too. But naturally I do not go out into society.”

  ‘Too bad,” said Evalina. “For there is always something exciting going on. I have three cards for parties this very afternoon.”

  Clare smiled sadly. “I know you must be enjoying yourself greatly. But I must not stay away from dear Miss Peek.”

  She longed to ask about Benedict, but she dared not. Lady Courtenay was a dear person, kindly and generous, but with a tongue loose at both ends. And Evalina followed her mother’s lead in every detail.

  But Lady Courtenay suddenly had an idea. “Pray ask Miss Peek’s indulgence, and we will go to the baths this afternoon. I am sure there can be no question of impropriety, don’t you know, with a matter of health. We are all much concerned with our own health, you know, and while there is much gossip in a place like this, where people have little enough to think about, yet I fancy that were you to be seen with me, there would be nothing to fear.”

  Clare leaped at the opportunity. It would be just the thing to go with Lady Courtenay, and while she loved Peeky, she was so restless waiting for Benedict that she welcomed the diversion that Lady Courtenay offered.

  So it was that that afternoon she found herself in the Pump Room with Lady Courtenay and Evalina. It was not quite what she expected, but soon she began to see faces she knew and exchanged a few words with those who came to greet her. It was the second day of her going with Lady Courtenay that she saw a face that made her shudder.

  What is he doing in Bath? she wondered, thinking that she had rarely seen anyone who appeared healthier than Harry Rowse.

  He saw her from across the room, and she was uncomfortably aware that his gaze fixed on her without discretion. She turned to Lady Courtenay and began to talk with animation.

  “Now, then, there is the Dowager Duchess of Argyle,” said Lady Courtenay. “She was a great friend of your grandmother in her early days, so I believe, and if you like, I shall take you to her.”

  “I should like that above all,” said Clare dutifully, and carefully not looking at Harry Rowse, she accompanied Lady Courtenay around the room to stand before the chair that held the dowager duchess.

  “This is Clare Penryck,” introduced Lady Courtenay. “You remember her grandmother.”

  “Of course I do,” said the duchess graciously. “I should offer you my hand but, alas, my fingers are so gnarled with this ailment that it is a pleasure I must deny myself. You do not look a thing like your grandmama. Much more like the Penrycks, I think, except for the Penryck eyebrows.”

  “She is much like her mother, Lady Thane tells me. A sweetly biddable girl.”

  Her grace looked penetratingly at Clare and said abruptly, “I should doubt that very much. But my dear, pray forgive us for talking of you as though you were not here. Sit down and tell me how your grandmother fared during the past years. You must miss her. I do myself, and I had not seen her for twenty years.�
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  Clare answered the duchess’s questions, and gained that lady’s high regard for her poise. “It is hard to believe,” said the duchess, when Clare rose with Lady Courtenay to take her leave, “that you are such a young person. Oh, yes, my dear, I do know how old you are, but if I did not, I would not guess you to be younger than twenty. I hope that pleases you? I always think that when one is young, one longs to be old, and of course, the reverse, as you will learn, is also true. But come and see me again. I see my foolish nurse beckoning to me, and I must prepare myself for another draft of that abominable medicine.”

  “I hope it helps you!” said Clare sincerely.

  “I doubt it will,” said the duchess, “but then, one tries everything.”

  It was on her way home, with Budge behind a few steps, hurrying, with the feeling that Harry Rowse might be just behind her, that she ran into Sir Alexander Ferguson.

  It looked as though all London had come to Bath, she thought—all but the one man she wanted to see. But Sir Alex’s honest face broke into a smile when he caught sight of her, and he lifted his beaver and greeted her.

  “I certainly did not expect to see you, Miss Penryck,” he said, “but will you let me escort you?” He turned and walked with her toward Milsom Street. “What are you doing in Bath?”

  She told him as much of the truth as she felt necessary, and asked him in turn, “I should have thought that you would still be in London? What is the latest on-dit from there? I feel sadly out of things.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose you might,” agreed Sir Alex. “But there is not much going on. Choate, you know, is still in town, but of course you would know that. He is your guardian, after all. But his marriage—”

  “Next month, I collect,” she said with an air of carelessness.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said, frowning. “I did hear, I think, that the date had been postponed. But I may be wrong. At any rate, I do not envy him. It seems to me that such a marriage is destined to be a rocky one. You know, I myself have looked for other qualities in a wife. But I should perhaps not talk of them to you. At least at this time. I know you are still in mourning, and will be for some time. But there will be a time...”

  He smiled down at her, and drew her hand through his arm.

  “Choate is not married, then.”

  “No. I remember Miss Morton’s father. A terror if there ever was one. Heard he once flogged a footman because the meat was cold. Nonsense, of course. Not the footman’s fault.”

  “I should say not.”

  “Butler should have known the meat was cold.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said faintly. “Do you mean he should have flogged the butler?”

  To her great surprise, he nodded. “Of course he should have. Bad judgment, all the way round. Somewhat of a bully, don’t you know, flogging a footman because he was smaller.”

  They strolled farther in silence. A great bully, Miss Morton’s father? She felt there was something germane to the issue in this new information, but she could not quite understand what it was. She would have to think on this further, for all things connected with her hated guardian were of compelling interest.

  “I should not wish harm to anyone,” she said finally, “because of course that is not right, but I cannot help but think that Lord Choate deserves flogging. Or at least some sort of revelation.”

  Sir Alexander looked down at her in surprise. “I should have thought that a gentleman of such prestige would be ideal as a guardian for a personable young lady such as yourself.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” said Clare hardily. “You do not see my guardian as I see him. He is perfectly odious, and I think”—with belated caution—“we have spoken quite enough of him. Are you enjoying Bath?”

  “It is a most historical place, don’t you know. The mineral springs here were first recognized by the Romans,” Sir Alex informed her with all the liveliness of a guidebook. “They made their settlement of Aquae Sulis here in A.D. 44—”

  Her attention lapsed, until she was able, during a pause in his peroration, to insert deftly, “Tell me, you do not come to Bath for your health?”

  “Oh, no. But it is the fashionable place to be just now, you know. London is deserted, and if one wants to be in the swim, one comes to Bath.”

  So much the better, thought Clare. Surely no one could fault her for setting aside her strict mourning seclusion on the state of her health. But if it were fashionable to be seen in Bath, then Benedict would hear of it. And even if he had not thoroughly perused her letter to him, tossing it aside without understanding it, or even—horror of horrors!—if his secretary had not shown it to him, he would yet understand that she was, as he would no doubt say, footloose in Bath!

  She was much more comfortable, now that she had solved to her own satisfaction Benedict’s failure to appear posthaste. She could expect now that he would surely respond to the tide of gossip that must inevitably reach his ears, in London, or at his country house.

  Sir Alexander escorted her to the front door of the apartment above the milliner’s shop where the Misses Peek lived in cramped quarters, even more confining now that Clare had moved in.

  “I shall look forward to seeing you,” he said, lifting her mittened hand to his lips, “but I must adjure you to exercise every care so that you preserve your good character. I should expect that Choate has some scheme in mind to surround you with the care that is rightfully yours. Perhaps you will instruct me,” he said, essaying a ponderous twinkle, “as to how I can best safeguard you until he arrives?”

  She murmured an appropriate response, but her mind was busy on a variety of subjects. Bidding farewell to her escort, she scurried up the stairs and closed the door behind her. Both Peek sisters looked up sharply when she came in.

  “Peeky, I have such news! Did you know that Bath is fashionable this time of year??

  “Of course, love. But I cannot say that gives us much pleasure. Truly, Clare, we should not have come to Bath.” “No, indeed, we should not! I would much rather be lying in my bed with my head swathed in bandages where a portion of the abbey fell on my unsuspecting head.”

  “Hardly unsuspecting,” interposed Miss Sara Peek. “I judge that is the reason, after all, why you came to Bath—that you did suspect such an event?”

  Clare decided she did not like Miss Sara as well as she liked her own Miss Emily Peek. Miss Sara was far too perceptive, and Clare knew that the sisters’ quiet life had been shattered by her arrival. But it would be for only a short time, and there was little else she could do.

  “A letter came for you,” announced Miss Sara. “There on the table. I had to pay the man.”

  Clare flew to the table to seize the letter. Not franked, so it was not from Lord Benedict Choate. An expression of dismay slipped across her face, so strong as even to move Miss Sara to a kind of pity. The miss was wayward, and this whole romp would lead to trouble, thought Miss Sara darkly, but yet it was too bad the child was so lonely.

  The child, just now, was increasingly furious. The letter, while not from her guardian, yet was prompted by his moving spirit.

  “My dear Miss Penryck,” began the letter from Mr. Austin, in Dorset, “I have been advised by Lord Choate, your guardian, that I am to set about repairing the damage at the abbey at once. It should prove to be a small task, for the damage is hardly perceptible except for the one ceiling. There is no structural harm, I am assured. I have told Peters to rush the repairs, and they will be finished in a day or two. Lord Choate wished the work expedited, and has instructed me to tell you that you are to return to the abbey immediately upon its repair. By the time this letter reaches you, I expect all will be in readiness for your return. Pray believe me, yr. obt. servant...” She sank into a chair, the letter slipping to the floor. Miss Peek, after a nervous dart forward, resolutely picked it up and read it.

  “Well, then,” she said bracingly. “We must make ready to return to the abbey. I think if we start early tomorrow, we shall make it by l
ate afternoon, even in the heavy coach. I shall start packing.”

  She did not move, however, being arrested by some quality in Clare’s silence. At length Clare burst into speech as though the words were wrung from her: “He doesn’t care!”

  18.

  Clare went to bed without her supper. She had been given one of the two bedrooms of the small flat in Milsom Street for her own, and so, happily, she was able to give way entirely to her distraught state of mind, without the need for keeping up appearances before the sisters Peek.

  She pulled the stool to the window and looked down into the street. It was a fairly well-traveled street during the day, for there were several shops catering to the wealthier of the valetudinarians, and there were carriages going to and fro, and fashionable women with their well-dressed escorts strolling on the sidewalk, followed by a maid or footman to carry the packages.

  But at night the street was entirely deserted. The shop below had turned down its lights long since, and the aroma of cabbage that inevitably floated upstairs stirred some pangs of hunger in her.

  But she could not swallow over the lump in her throat. From her window she could see the lights still lit in the Assembly Rooms, and even, now and then, a measure of violin melody telling that somewhere in that vast pile of brick there was dancing and revelry.

  And she sat here in the dark, forgotten by everyone she knew—meaning Lord Choate—and resented by Peeky’s sister.

  Sadly she rehearsed her failures. She had made a mull of her life already and she was only sixteen. Many a girl was married by the time she was eighteen—her own mother had been, and although that had not been an overly happy marriage, yet she was sure her mother would not have wanted to depart from it with such abruptness.

  She could have helped Clare through this, thought Clare, but then, if her mother had lived, she would not have gone to London, her grandmother would not have been so anxious to get her settled, and the entire affair would not have happened. Besides that, she would not now be under the uncaring supervision of a wicked guardian.