by Vanessa Gray
The tears came unannounced, and she wept for her grandmother. And her mother and father, and for what might have been and was not.
But before long, the inheritance of realism she owed to the Penrycks came to her rescue. She had mourned, truly, for her grandmother many times before Lady Penryck’s death, and it had done no good, nor would tears help at this juncture.
Only a plan would do—a scheme laid out in detail, to reach a point she wanted to gain.
The plan she had already hatched had misfired in her face. Mr. Austin was the delegated authority between Choate and herself. Her plan was shattered, but perhaps she could salvage some of it? Or even, as her mind began to work busily, construct a new plan?
The trouble with the previous plan, she realized, was that she would not have known what to do with Choate when she had lured him to Bath. Grandmama would have been ashamed for her, not to have thought things through.
She propped her chin on her hand, elbow on the sill, and looked broodingly out over the city founded by Caesar’s legions. But the past Romans and the present invalids were alike forgotten as she set her mind on her own affairs. She had never been encouraged to believe in her own limitations, and thus it was that the failures of recent weeks weighed so heavily upon her. Grandmama had often told her she could do anything she set her mind to—within the limitations of the exigencies of society, of course, for it would not do to jeopardize her reputation—and now Clare remembered, with thankfulness, her grandmother’s confidence in her.
She would bring it off, she knew. As soon as she decided what she wanted. To bring Benedict to his knees. To teach him that she was not a penniless dependent to be regarded with disinterest and cared for as a truly great man sees that his sheep are dryly penned in the winter and that his hounds are fed.
She would not simply be put on a shelf.
She stirred restlessly. Somehow these aims did not seem quite enough. But they would have to do for a start.
Now the question was, how to accomplish this much?
As she turned over in her mind the recent days in Bath, one face came to her, at last, a face that had long repelled her. Now the face of Harry Rowse continued to lurk at the fringes of her mind, like a naughty child peeping through the banisters at the festivities below.
She was already determined not to return to Penryck Abbey. Such a retreat would be a death blow to her aspirations. She had tried the simple removal to Bath, expecting that after Choate had fiercely forbidden her to travel there, he would come down posthaste to deal with her rebellion.
But he had simply turned the matter over to Mr. Austin. Instead of regarding such an act on Choate’s part as giving her credit for a reasonable solution to an unexpected problem, she considered it a cowardly evasion. And she would go to any lengths, she thought, to point out his errors to his face.
And the face of Harry Rowse edged closer in her thoughts. At length she made up her mind. If there was one thing above all else, judging from her experience of him, that would set Choate boiling, it was Harry Rowse. And Rowse could be encouraged, she thought.
But that would be dangerous, she decided. She truly did not think she could trust him, and to take him into her confidence would be the outside of folly. But if Benedict thought that Harry Rowse was favored...
The next morning she informed Miss Peek that she could not possibly travel to Penryck Abbey this day. “Besides, Peeky, I know Peters from old, and he will not finish his work as soon as Mr. Austin thinks he will. I should judge another week will be soon enough to consider leaving Bath.”
“I don’t suppose you would consider removing to the Christopher?” suggested the dour Miss Sara.
“Sister, how could you say that? I must go with her if' we consider such a change, and—”
“And it would be most expensive,” added Clare quickly. “But I shall certainly give up my bed, and perhaps we could put two chairs together, and it would work out marvelously.”
The discussion was still going on when Miss Peek and Clare, accompanied by Budge, at the proper hour of ten moved out of Milsom Street and onto the Parade. It was not long before they met Lady Courtenay and Evalina, and Miss Peek, pleading errands, left her charge in care of the Courtenays, suiting Clare eminently.
Scanning the faces of the crowds, she at length caught sight of the one she searched for, and took her first step in her scheme.
“Oh, pray let us go the other way for a moment, Evalina,” she begged. “I see ... But then, I must not trouble you.”
Evalina, scenting a pleasurable excitement, tightened her fingers on Clare’s arm and said, “What do you see, Clare? Who is it? Lady Melvin?”
“Lady Melvin!” exclaimed Clare in surprise. “I did not know she was in Bath. Where is she?” She caught sight of Lady Melvin and Sir Ewald, the latter in a bath chair, his bandaged gouty foot held up prominently before him. They were on the opposite pavement, and Clare thought they did not see her.
Clare returned to her original plan. “Mr. Rowse, you know. I do not wish to recognize him.”
“He’s terrible,” agreed Evalina. “Has he been ... well, you know?” she added in a somewhat wistful tone.
Clare lowered her gaze to the pavement. “I do not wish to say more, even to you, dear Evalina.”
Harry Rowse, already aprowl, altered his course to intercept the small party, and as he drew close, he doffed his beaver and waited for Lady Courtenay to speak. Since Lady Courtenay had a certain regard for Harry’s mother, was sufficiently mistress of her own affairs, and possessed of a great deal of credit in society, she did not snub Harry Rowse, as many another lady would have, but nodded to him graciously.
Rowse, encouraged beyond his expectations, turned and walked a few steps with them. But, catching Lady Courtenay’s speculative eye on him, he thought it prudent to recollect an errand in the opposite end of town and bade them good-day. Clare was content Rowse had been seen with her. She could rely on gossip.
“That is enough,” said Lady Courtenay comfortably. “We have recognized him and I daresay his mother would thank me for it. But we have no need to take him up, for he must know that he is not welcome in any society that prides itself on its standards.”
Lady Courtenay then dismissed him totally from her mind. Catching sight of one of her cronies, together they entered the Pump Room. Lady Courtenay and her friend gravitated toward wicker chairs, and settled down for a comfortable coze. Clare had leisure to congratulate herself on the progress Of her scheme.
It came time at last for Clare to return to Milsom Street, but Lady Courtenay gave no sign of leaving. Clare was uncertain as to what to do, especially since Evalina had decided to undergo a treatment that would continue for another hour, at the least.
Clare finally took her leave of Lady Courtenay, who was in the middle of a particularly exhilarating piece of gossip about the Duchess of York at Oatlands—“At least a hundred dogs, you know, and they swarmed around poor Lewis and bit him!”—and Clare departed from the Pump Room with only Budge to escort her.
Hungry, because she had not eaten supper the night before, she hurried down the street and turned into an angling walkway. No sooner had she left the main street than she saw, to her great dismay, coming toward her the man of all men that she did not want to see.
“Miss Penryck!” said Harry Rowse. “I had hoped to see you again. But I had not thought fortune would smile on me quite so soon. May I walk with you?”
He did not wait for permission but turned to walk in her direction. He did not offer his arm. “I want to apologize to you for that episode that I am sure you have by now forgotten—at least, I should hope you have. It was unforgivable in me to allow my feelings to guide me, and my only excuse is that my heart overruled my head. I must take care not to let it happen again,” he added, watching her closely.
From his height, he could see the flush mantling her cheek beneath the feathers curled fetchingly along the brim of her bonnet.
As an apology, she tho
ught, it lacked something—true repentance, possibly. But she was far too conscious of his company to want to prolong it. She murmured something in a stifled voice that he took to mean forgiveness, and as they reached the corner where Milsom Street crossed, he saw with surprise that she was going to turn into the street.
“But of course, you have errands. Pray allow me to accompany you.”
With returning spirit, she stopped and laughed at him. “I suppose you, a very tulip of fashion, would enjoy shopping? No, I dare not imagine such a thing. I thank you for your escort this far. But now I must leave you. Goodbye.”
He was not ready to give up quite yet. “But where are you staying?” he demanded. “I should like, if you do not greatly mind, to see you again.”
Inspiration came to her, belatedly. She had no wish to divulge her actual residence to him, for who knew what he was capable of? She had allowed herself—even though without design this last time—to be seen with Rowse, for her own purposes, but she feared to allow him any further conversation.
“You know of course that I am in mourning,” she said, gently sad, “and do not go out. But ... you may look for me at the Christopher.”
He bowed deeply, and with a satisfied smile took his leave. And look and look, thought Clare. But you will not find me there.
Nonetheless, she decided not to take any chances. She had set in train the gossip she intended, and if gossip acted as it usually did, it would be flying on wings to all corners of England. And she dared not become embroiled in any incident beyond this until she had heard from Benedict.
The next few days she kept close to the apartment, going out only when Miss Peek could go with her. Sir Alexander joined them once or twice, and while Clare noticed that Harry Rowse watched her from a distance, he made no sign of recognition.
The days wore on, and there was no word from Choate. Her spirits sank lower and lower, and as the days passed, she knew that at the end of the week she must return to Penryck Abbey.
It came to the last day she had allowed herself. One more time she would stroll on the Crescent, on the promenade, through the Pump Room. She longed for that, so when Sir Alexander called and asked whether he could escort her, she agreed gladly.
“For you must know,” she told him as they descended Milsom Street, Budge walking behind them, “that I must return to my home tomorrow. You will remember that there was extensive damage to the house in the flood, and I have just been told that the repairs are complete. So that I long to be home again.”
Clare continued to chatter artlessly, and soon they reached the main street and turned toward the Pump Room. From afar they could see a heavy traveling coach drawn by four horses—not real goers, said Sir Alex, but of good blood—lumbering toward them down the street. Something familiar about the coach stopped Clare in her tracks, and they waited as the coach drew nearer.
Soon she could make out the panel, as the coach turned onto Laura Place, and she exclaimed with a sinking feeling, “Lady Thane! I wonder what she is doing here!”
But while she turned it over in her mind, Sir Alexander was pointing out the traveling curricle moving smartly behind the coach, drawn by two matched grays, the driver on .the seat holding the reins effortlessly in one hand, his whip held at an elegant angle in the other.
“Choate!” exploded Sir Alexander. “I thought he had gone to the country!”
“Well, after all,” said Clare, gratified at the sight of her goal attained, “his country house is not very far from here, is it?”
“In Kent, you know. But of course he does have properties everywhere.” Sir Alexander nodded wisely. “A great landowner, and when Miss Morton’s land and his are joined, there will be few wealthier men in England.”
As they watched, the curricle began to turn, and suddenly veered in their direction. Bringing his horses to a precise halt before her, Benedict touched his hat and nodded to Alex. “I had not expected to see you here in Bath, Miss Penryck,” said Benedict calmly. “I must speak to Austin about diluting my instructions.”
“I had heard nothing from you, Lord Choate,’5 said Clare innocently, “and I felt that I must have misunderstood Mr. Austin’s letter, even though I am persuaded he quoted you exactly.”
Benedict held his impatient horses easily—more easily, in truth, than he held his temper. But all he said was, “Ferguson, I would be much obliged to you if you escorted my ward back to her lodgings in Milsom Street. I must see Lady Thane settled, and then, believe me”—he glared at Clare—“I shall wait upon you directly.”
Lady Thane’s carriage was already out of sight. But Benedict backed his horses in the narrow way, and turning them precisely, drove into the side street and was soon also out of sight.
“Well,” said Sir Alex heavily, “I must hasten to put myself in the right with him. I do not think he will object when I explain that Lady Courtenay has seen that all was proper, and certainly you have your maid with you at all times.” He began to escort her back to the Peek apartment. “No, I fancy that even such a stickler as Choate will find nothing amiss.”
Clare, once upstairs with the Misses Peek, was not nearly so sanguine as Alex had been. “He’s here!” she announced to her hostesses. When they sorted it out, at last, from Clare’s alternate fits of dread and anticipation, and they realized that Lord Choate was indeed coming to call on Clare in this apartment within the hour, in moments the sisters had donned their shawls and their bonnets, and, armed with an ostentatious shopping list, scuttled down the steps in a flurry, leaving only Budge to succor her mistress and support her in the coming ordeal.
Miss Peek’s last words were, “Now, you know that Lord Choate is an exceedingly fine gentleman, and your guardian. There is naught amiss in your receiving him alone. But ... I do wish we had gone back to Penryck Abbey when Mr. Austin told us that was the thing to do. I fear Lord Choate will be much exercised!”
After she was left alone, Clare agreed. She had no regrets about staying here in Bath, for she had at last gained Lord Choate’s attention. She sat down on the edge of a chair to await the outcome of what she considered would be a very painful interview.
Budge at last announced him. “Lord Choate!” she said, barely staying in the room long enough to pronounce the name.
And Clare, holding to the arms of the chair with white-knuckled hands, found that the famed Penryck resolution had basely and incontinently fled.
19.
Benedict entered as the maid scuttled away. He stood in the center of the room, looking around him at the shabby furniture, the threadbare rug, and began to draw off his gloves.
He turned at last to her and lifted an eyebrow. “Well, no greeting? I must confess,” he said, with every appearance of amiability, “that I had thought you not quite so juvenile as to sit gaping at me as though I were a dragon.”
Somewhat encouraged by his easy words, Clare felt her self-assurance creeping back. “I do wonder at your coming to Bath,” she said ingenuously, “for I had not thought you one to dose yourself.”
“I am not,” he said steadily. “Nor do I intend to take the waters. I rode over to Penryck Abbey three days ago, expecting to find you there.”
“But you know about the ceiling, sir?”
“I do,” he said, and for the first time a touch of grimness crept into his voice. “You will be relieved to know that it is entirely repaired. But Austin agreed with me that his letter to you must have gone astray. Or else,” he said deliberately, “you would have returned to Dorset.” She sat silently, looking down at the hands folded in her lap. She waited for the storm to break over her head, for already she knew Choate well enough to understand that when he was most amiable, a swift change for the worse in his mood could be expected.
“I did not think it mattered,” she said, with an appearance of innocence, “whether I went one day or another. There was nothing in Dorset that needed me, after all.”
“Whereas I suppose the Pump Room here did?” he said with a rising inflection
. “But let me tell you this—I do not like what I have been hearing about you. A fast life is not proper when you are in mourning. Even someone more hen-witted than you would know that.”
“But, sir, I have not been feeling well. And anyone can take the waters for one’s health, mourning or not.”
“So”—he glared at her—“that is your excuse. Very well, gossip may be wrong in what it spreads all over England. But I fail to see what contribution meeting with known rakes has to do with restoring your health.”
Harry Rowse’s meeting had indeed provided the spur that brought Benedict here to Bath. She was hard put to hide her satisfaction. But now that Benedict was here—what then? She had no plan for the next step.
“Known rakes,” she said. “How can gossip have exaggerated so much? Unless, of course, they mean Sir Alexander Ferguson? I did not know he had such a reputation, sir, or I should not have walked with him.”
“You know I don’t mean Ferguson.” He took a turn around the tiny room, seeming surprised at coming abruptly to a table before he knew it. Then he said in an altered tone, “I am glad to see that the waters have been of assistance. You appear to me to be quite recovered.”
“Bath,” she said demurely, “has done me a world of good.”
He watched her uncertainly for a moment. He had come to Bath in a high flight of anger, overborne Lady Thane’s objections to traveling this far, and posted down to Bath to scoop up his ward and put her in her place. He had dark suspicions about her motives, and found that he was not quite sure how to deal with her.
Blast the Penryck lawyer who had gotten him into such a fix! And he could wish that Primula had not been quite so married, so that she could have taken the girl off his hands.
His eyes glinted under the black bars of brows as he said, “You will be pleased to learn that the parlor ceiling at Penryck Abbey has been replastered, and new carpets have been installed on the upper floor.”