Letters from Bath; Or, A Friend in Exile

by Meredith Allady

  Chapter Fourteen

  Letter No. 25

  Tuesday, 26th June

  My dear Julia,

  If there had ever been any doubt in my mind about the disagreeableness of Bath, today has removed it. Having risen much earlier than usual and taken extra pains to present myself faultless and restored to health to my mother, I had the happiness of gaining her reluctant consent to join her when she went out. My good-humor even withstood the mistrustful glances she kept bestowing upon me as we awaited the chairs, whenever I made some small sound which might, to a nervous mind, have seemed preparatory to a more violent respiration; and I resolutely took no notice when she carefully maintained a distance between us of not less than two yards as we entered the rooms. All this was no more than I had expected, and a small enough price to pay in order to find myself once more in the theater of my play, as it were, instead of being forced to read the notices the next day.

  At first, all went well. I was greeted with gratifying expressions of relief and pleasure by all my elderly allies, who treated me rather as if I were a combination of Dorcas raised again to life, and someone in imminent danger of suffering a relapse and retiring to her deathbed. The report brought to them by Mrs. Warren of my coughing fit had instilled in them a general alarm, which was only nourished by my appearance among them, clad in the most unbecoming dress I own. They heaped upon me all those sympathetic phrases that leave one aware that one is not looking one’s best, and exchanged anxious murmurs about my condition when they thought I could not hear them, poor pale sickly creature that I am, unable to support even a headcold with grace. Mrs. Ashford, indeed, looked at me with such a searching and intent gaze, that I was in momentary expectation of her pulling out a watch and seizing my wrist to feel for my pulse--

  “Thinks she--’tis all over--Ann’s sentence is past,

  And now I must count just how long she may last.”

  She evidently conquered the impulse, however, and only managed to murmur the word ‘consumptive’ to Mrs. Belmar, before being quickly hushed by Mrs. Warren, who seemed to take my restoration to the public rooms as a particular compliment to her own skills as a visitor of the sick.

  All this went very well, as I said: what did not, was the true reason for my eagerness to return to society. The hours passed, and still there was no sign of either Barrs or Graysons, and not even Mrs. Smithton made an appearance. My ladies were as ignorant of the reason for these unusual absences as I, and though speculations abounded, and Mrs. Harris made inquiries among some of her friends, nothing was discovered, save the useless fact, that on the previous evening they had all left the rooms together, and someone had overheard the Graysons offering to share their carriage with Mrs. Smithton and her young relatives, as everyone knew Mrs. Smithton kept no horses, and was too mean to hire a chair, unless it was raining furiously enough to make one look about for an ark.

  I strove to convince myself that this was good news, in that it showed Mrs. Grayson had not abandoned her interest in the Barrs, but was instead taking pains to ensure their comfort. Nevertheless, I could not be easy, knowing how quickly the threads of one’s best stratagems can snag on some unforeseen obstacle, and begin to unravel, unless someone is present to hold them together and tie the necessary knots. No doubt, in true Parry fashion, you are now wondering where, in all this, is my faith in the mysterious workings of Providence; and all I have to say to that, is that past experience has shown, that Providence is a deal more inclined to work things out as I wish, if I am present and able to push them along in the right direction. And now you are laughing at my inconsistent similes, and asking how one pushes forward a knotted thread—and for the answer to that question, I must refer you to the example of your cousin Merivale’s cat: the best method is plainly to herd the whole knotted tangle into a small pile, and then run up on it in a series of leaps, and chase it across the parquetry with your paws until it disappears under a bookcase, defying all attempts at extraction.

  The next evening.

  Another interminable day of sitting, and talking, and listening, and hobbling about, and pretending to drink the waters to please my allies. No Barrs; no Grayson. Mrs. Smithton arrived, rather later than has been her wont, her countenance cast in even grimmer lines than usual, and entirely alone. Seeking intelligence of my friends, Mrs. Farris heroically flung herself and two of her fellow card-players into the breach, and invited the solitary woman to join their table; a sacrifice that earned her nothing but ten shillings, and the stony-faced admission from Mrs. Smithton that she and the Barrs had parted ways, after she discovered in them evidence of the grossest ingratitude. She then fixed her attention solely on the game at hand, and not all of Mrs. Farris’s friendly chatter and ingenuous remarks could elicit any other comment on the matter. A casual reference by Mrs. Farris to Mrs. Grayson, produced even less response—only a dull flush, a slight, inimical narrowing of Mrs. Smithton’s eyes, and the cold observation that she had always understood the game to be called Whist because the players were desired to maintain a certain measure of silence while it was in progress.

  My faith in my allies has been greatly shaken, to find that some event can seriously discompose one who regularly frequents these rooms, and accomplish the unexpected disappearance of four other persons, and yet not one of my ladies has been able to discover anyone who has the slightest suspicion of what momentous occurrence may have brought this about. Have they no servants? Have they no household spies? How can any Mrs. Tiddle-Taddle who deserves the name be so deficient in information, just when it is most required? I begin to wonder if I have made a grave mistake, in entrusting the truth of my fragile condition to those who have thus proved themselves woefully inadequate to the task of knowing and telling all.

  Yours in the utmost gloom, Ann Northcott

  PS. You will please have your mother, when next she writes to Lady Thomasin, to warn that lady not to visit Bath this year. It is such a tiresome place, that the conviction has been growing upon me that England would be best served, were it to become the site of a Gothick Ruin, which one only visits briefly on a pic-nic in order to admire and sketch the picturesque nature of its fallen towers, and then moves on to more cheerful landscapes. Unfortunately, the only way I can think of to bring this about, is to send the French an invitation to invade it, with precise directions to all those main buildings, that I feel would most benefit from being turned into uninhabitable and owl-ridden heaps. You need not fear any lasting harm from my latest plan, however, for I mean at the same time to write to the Horse Guards, giving them the appointed date of the invasion, that they might repel The Corsican Monster and his minions before they are able to advance any further into the country. Indeed, I do not know that I require even the whole of Bath to be destroyed; I believe the ruination of the Crescent--which my mother is always commanding me to admire--and the public rooms, with their ubiquitous smirking portraits of past masters of the ceremonies, will leave me perfectly satisfied.