Holiday in Bath

by Laura Matthews

  Mr. Bodford’s unguarded and erratic manner did not recommend him to young ladies’ parents, as well he knew, and he resented Rissington’s ease on the present, as he had on past occasions. Unfortunately, they were often attracted to the same females, and Rissington forever won the advan­tage.

  Because of his angelic face and wide blue eyes, no one suspected him of the least guile; and Bodford would be the first to affirm their judgment, though he could have told them a great deal that would have surprised them, nonetheless. And it was not necessarily that Bodford himself was sus­pected of guile, more often he was presumed foolish, which was just as far from the truth as the presumption that Rissington’s temperament was as open as his countenance. A stocky figure, indeterminate features, nondescript brown eyes and hair all combined to make him an unprepossessing figure; and, when considered in addition to his penchant for saying precisely what came to mind, he was either dismissed as a loose screw, a slow top, or a frippery fellow. Often overlooked were his perpetual good nature (excluding the present cir­cumstances), his expertise in every field of athletic endeavor, and his unfailing courtesy to the highest and lowest of his fellow creatures.

  Remembering his delightful tales of the previous eve­ning, Trelenny was endeavoring to show him to advantage before her skeptical mother, who had conceived the standard impression of Mr. Bodford during his first minutes in the room. “When does your father come to town, Mr. Bodford?”

  “He leaves Westmorland in a week. Makes a stately progression, though, and I don’t expect him for some time after that.”

  Trelenny felt she had not perhaps given him the most propitious opening, so she tried again. “I heard of a high­wayman near Preston on our way here. Have you ever encountered any trouble on the road?”

  A gleam appeared in his eyes. “Haven’t I just! Last year I was going into Somerset to visit Thompkins. He lives near this little village called Luccombe and God help me the directions he gave would have lost a military scout. Well, it’s nowhere, I promise you! Pretty country, you understand. Once I found the dratted place even I could appreciate how pleasant it was there, but I kept asking my way and no one had ever heard of it! Fancy that! I dare say there’s not a soul in Westmorland who couldn’t direct you to Kendal! Of course, Luccombe is a village, but I swear I asked this farm lad for the place when it turned out I wasn’t half a mile from it—and he hadn’t ever heard of it!”

  Afraid that her mother was becoming restless by this digression, Trelenny asked, “And was it on your way there that you met a highwayman?”

  “A highwayman? I’ve never met a highwayman,” he declared emphatically. “Met a footpad once,” with a sig­nificant look at Rissington, “but never a highwayman. Well, stands to reason, don’t it? No highwayman’s nag could outrun that pair of mine, could they, Rissington?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “But I thought you said you’d encountered trouble on the road,” Trelenny persisted.

  “I did,” Tony agreed with the gleam returning to his eyes. “I was about to tell you. Wasn’t but a short distance from the village and I could see the lights gleaming through the trees ahead, when I came around a bend to find a carriage slung right across the road. Whoa, I said to myself, this means trouble. Drew my pair up short, though it was a near thing. Stopped them just a squeak away from the carriage and sent my tiger to their heads before I had time to realize that there was only one horse attached to the landau. Well, I thought, one of the horses has gone lame and they’ve left him and taken the other to get help. But why would they have left the carriage straight across the road, I wondered? Sort of put me on my guard, don’t you know? So I took up a pistol I keep under the seat and walked right up to the door and opened it. And what do you think I found?” He gazed on his audience with bright-eyed eagerness.

  Rissington groaned; Trelenny smiled encouragingly; Mrs. Storwood waited rather longingly for the end of the tale.

  “A naked woman! On my honor!” Oblivious to the fact that he had shocked Mrs. Storwood, Tony continued with relish. “And not a highwayman involved in the whole affair! First thing I did, of course, was take off my driving cape and give it to the poor woman. Seems her husband had driven her out of the house without a stitch on her back over some misunderstanding. Told his coachman to leave her like a newborn babe precisely ten miles from his estate, but one of the horses went lame and he’d ridden off to get another in the village. When the lame horse heard my carriage coming he tried to bolt, but just threw the carriage across the road. The poor woman didn’t dare to get out and try to right the situation.”

  “Her husband did that to her?” Trelenny asked incredu­lously. “What happened to her?”

  “I took her up with me in the curricle and brought her to Thompkins’ place. His sister knew the woman, and eventu­ally she was returned to her parents’ home. They sued the husband; stripped him pretty near as well as he did his wife.”

  “I’m glad to hear it! What a despicable thing to do.”

  Mrs. Storwood looked as though she needed a whiff of her vinaigrette, but Trelenny was too indignant to notice. Lord Rissington considered it time he and Bodford took their leave, and mercilessly propelled the other man before him to the door. With an apologetic smile, he took his leave of Mrs. Storwood and Trelenny, managing to convey his hope that they would meet again soon over Bodford’s mumbled, “Wasn’t entirely in the right, you know, the wife, but I don’t hold with such villainy as the husband’s myself.”

  Before the door had closed after them, Mrs. Storwood dug her vinaigrette out of her bulging reticule and agitatedly waved it under her nose. “Whatever possessed him to tell us such a story?” she asked faintly.

  “Don’t be vexed with him, Mama. I think he’s a dear, really. He didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sure, just to entertain us with his escapade.”

  “Cranford would never have told us anything so improp­er! Imagine discussing unclothed women with us.”

  No, Cranford doesn’t discuss it, he just does it, Trelenny apostrophized mentally with an embarrassed toss of her head. Gone was the long silken hair he had released from its pins that night, and she was glad it was gone!

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Cranford had spent a disturbed night. Sleep proved elusive, so he rose from his bed, wrapped a dressing gown around himself, and struck a flint to light his bedside candle. Restlessly pacing about the room, an elegant chamber with an alcove containing two Hepplewhite cabriole chairs flanking a draw table, he noticed the copy of Emma and decided he would begin reading it to make himself drowsy. Before opening the first volume, however, he stared off into the shadowy room, unable to pinpoint what was discomposing him so. Trelenny, of course, he thought, running a hand distractedly through his hair, but this was not his usual state of mind concerning her. Ordinarily he would experience a moment’s irritation or more sustained doubts of her behavior which lurked at the back of his mind. Was he too hard on her? This evening, for instance, he need not have ended their evening by impugning her. Surely it was cruel to depress her soaring spirits after so successful an evening for her. Three men at least had been more than pleased to share her company, had laughed and talked with her with evident enjoyment. Both Bodford and Rissington had questioned him about her after their sets, expressing delight in her freshness and enthusiasm.

  And it was true that Trelenny was not just in the common way. Her own special charm was her eagerness and optimism about life and everything in it, her fascination and sympathy with other people, her ready adaptability to both good and bad fortune. They were not necessarily merely characteristics of youth, either, Cranford realized. A certain amount of caution would be acquired in time to blunt the edge of her frankness, but the joyous celebration of each day seemed unlikely to change, barring any disaster.

  So why had he tried to spoil her evening? Perhaps because of her accusation earlier in the day that he wouldn’t own to reading Emma. No, for all his irate behavior, he k
new almost for a certainty that that was only a prank of hers, played in revenge for his perpetually pinching at her. He smiled ruefully at the memory of her haughty demand to be taken home, but another scene eclipsed that almost im­mediately—her laughing face raised to Mr. Rowle and again to Rissington and Bodford. Cranford had intended, if Tre­lenny lacked a partner for any dance, to solicit her himself, but there had been no need. She had managed perfectly well without his assistance, and somehow that rankled. Not that she had enjoyed the early part of the evening; Cranford knew her well enough to understand that she had been uneasy with her first partners. Even then she had not turned to him for support, though he realized, with chagrin, that he had given her no encouragement to do so, rather the opposite.

  With an exasperated shrug, he decided that it was futile to delve further into the day’s uncomfortable occurrences. Tomorrow he would treat her more kindly. Better yet, tomor­row he would avoid her, as she seemed to wish. Mr. Whel­drake could stand escort to the Storwoods, and Cranford would have an opportunity to do precisely what he wanted, though nothing occurred to him offhand. He unconsciously rumpled his hair and opened the book on his lap, forcing any further thoughts of Trelenny from his mind. Not once, until he encountered the note tucked in the third chapter, did he give a thought to Lady Babthorpe.

  Cranford dear, when you doze over this book, dream of me. My lord spends Tuesday night in Wells. I am forbidden to go out in the evenings save in his company, so I shall be at home alone. Clothilde will be at the rear entry at mid­night. There is no risk. Don’t fail me.

  Cranford took the note to the grate and lit it from his candle, watching impassively at it flamed and turned to ash. The room was cold now and he shivered. Thoughtfully he retraced his steps to the alcove and placed a leather bookmark in Emma before discarding his dressing gown and climbing into bed. He did not dream of Lady Babthorpe.

  ~ ~ ~

  Lord Barlow’s house in Queen Square reflected his daughter's taste as well as his own. When Cranford arrived he was shown into a drawing room in such contrast to Mrs. Waplington’s eclectic rooms that he almost smiled. Instead of the clutter of furniture, paintings, and mirrors, there was a refined simplicity ornamented by classical motifs and objects, which held no small interest for an antiquarian. Lady Jane and her father were entertaining a woman and her daughter unknown to Cranford but obviously on easy terms with the host and hostess. They soon took their leave, and after conversing with Cranford for a few minutes, Lord Barlow did likewise because of a pressing appointment.

  “Did Miss Storwood go to the Assembly last night?”

  “Yes, and was very well-received. Rissington and Bodford joined her entourage.”

  “Is Tony in town, then? I hadn’t seen him.”

  “He arrived only two days ago and has been searching out lodgings for his father. Rissington found some for him.”

  “Naturally.”

  "A Mr. Rowle, too, seemed particularly interested in Trelenny.”

  Lady Jane frowned. “Is she an heiress, Cranford?”

  “She’ll have a handsome portion and a very fine property after her parents are gone. Do you know Rowle, Jane?”

  “I’ve met him, and heard more.” She turned earnest eyes on Cranford. “Don’t let him get his clutches in that dear child.”

  Cranford sighed. “I was afraid so. He seems to have a vast appeal for her. She told me he had an air of adventure about him.”

  “Pooh! He’s a thorough-going blackguard, but not ev­eryone sees that. Changeable as a chameleon, wriggling his way into every potential advantage. Papa had a business dealing with him, and you know, Cranford, Papa is usually astute in judging character. Mr. Rowle has an astonishing facility for endearing himself to the most unlikely people. I wouldn’t trust him out of my sight.”

  “He has a stepsister named Caroline Moreby?”

  Lady Jane’s eyes opened wide. “You have done some astonishingly rapid research, my dear fellow.”

  “No, I met a Mr. Laytham in Preston, on his way to the border with Miss Moreby.”

  “Did you?” Lady Jane laughed aloud. “You relieve me, Cranford. Gossip was rampant here as to what had become of her. It was general knowledge that the stepfather was at­tempting to force her into a marriage with his son, and that she was very reluctant. I didn’t think she’d have the spirit to elope, though. Laytham? He would be the tall boy who took chivalry to heart. Miss Moreby was a substantial heiress from her grandfather. The elder Rowle has as much of an eye to the main chance as his son, I hear. Having married the mother, he intended to keep all the Moreby money in the family through his son. Poor Miss Moreby couldn’t even keep her own mother on her side; the woman is a vacillating weed! When the girl didn’t appear in society a week or so ago, it was rumored that she had been sent off to the country until she agreed to marry Rowle. I must admit I thought it likely. No murmur has escaped of the elopement.”

  “Is Rowle received?”

  “Not everywhere. They’re minor gentry, and the high ­sticklers won’t have anything to do with them, especially since the father and son both act like merchants when they smell a deal brewing. Still, I’ve seen the young one in any number of good houses. If it weren’t for Papa’s experience I suppose I wouldn’t feel so strongly. You should warn Miss Storwood.”

  Cranford shook his head. “It wouldn’t do any good, Jane. She’d just think I was interfering. Of course, she did try to assist Miss Moreby, but Trelenny would scarcely under­stand how a girl could let herself be pressured into marrying someone. She has a certain amount of experience in that line,” he admitted with a mournful grin. When his hostess made no comment he continued, “And Miss Moreby didn’t actually tell her about Mr. Rowle’s attentions. It was Laytham who told me. Nothing coming from me would carry much weight with Trelenny. She’d think Miss Moreby poor spirited (as she did Evelina) for running off at so little cause. Trelenny has a great deal of confidence in her own estimation of people—and she’s a babe in the wood.”

  “I could mention something casually. Really, Mr. Rowle is insidious, Cranford. Don’t expect Mrs. Storwood to recog­nize him for what he is.”

  “Any help you can give would be appreciated, Jane. I don’t want to see Trelenny hurt. Possibly Rissington or Bodford will take an interest and keep her too busy to pay much attention to Rowle.”

  “Let’s hope so.” She would have asked if he had no hopes of winning Trelenny’s interest himself, but the question seemed impertinent. “Would you like to see Papa’s collection? It’s been years, and he’s added a number of pieces besides the wine cup.”

  “He’s brought it with him? The whole collection?”

  “All but the really large pieces,” she said with a laugh. “He always does.”

  “A man after my own heart," Cranford said fervently, smiling. “Lead on, dear lady. And, Jane, I would be delighted to escort you to the Cheyney’s this evening if you have a mind to go."

  “Why, thank you, I’d be delighted. The Storwoods...?

  “Trelenny tells me Mr. Wheldrake would welcome the honor, and I’ve a mind to pursue my own path for a while.” He brushed a speck of dust from his coat and neglected to meet her eyes.

  “I see.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Mr. Wheldrake was flattered to have his offer of escort accepted again, and without benefit of Mr. Ashwicke on this occasion. Amongst the half dozen invitations on her desk for the evening, Mrs. Waplington declared her intention to attend only three: a rout at the Hunsingores, a drum at the Cheynes, and lastly a ball at the Buttercrambes. Cards had come for Trelenny and her mother for each of these occa­sions and the thought of attending three functions in one evening sent Trelenny into alt. She was so pleased with the white satin gown she wore and her new hairstyle with its solitary diamond butterfly clip that she almost regretted that Cranford would not see her.

  At the Hunsingores she met Mr. Bodford, who, though addicted to the card table, found time to introduce her to several of his frien
ds and kindly partnered her at one of the whist tables long enough to see her several pounds the richer, before excusing himself to the higher stakes in the back drawing room. Mrs. Waplington also rose a winner and announced that she was ready for her chair to the Cheynes, if the others could be persuaded to desert such good company.

  Trelenny, flushed with her success, mounted the steps at the drum with every expectation of pleasure. If she was not mistaken, Mr. Rowle had mentioned the Cheynes that morn­ing and she had hopes of finding him among the assembled guests. She was not prepared to find Cranford there with Lady Jane.

  In spite of his avowed intent to treat Trelenny more kindly, Cranford felt as though she’d slapped him when he saw her. That beautiful golden hair that had reached to her waist—gone! Those silken tresses that had slipped through his fingers when he released the pins—vanished, to be replaced by a madcap fringe that floated on her head like a naughty angel’s halo. He quickly transferred his stunned gaze to Mrs. Storwood, who shook her head unhappily.

  “Good evening, Lady Jane,” Trelenny said nervously, offering her hand and trying to avoid Cranford’s fulminating glare. “I . . . I’m so pleased you had me to Queen Square to learn the waltz, for we’re going to a ball next.”