Holiday in Bath

by Laura Matthews

  “I trust you will enjoy every moment, my dear. Your haircut is charming. How very clever of you to find some­thing completely original. No matter what we do with mine, it’s always an imitation of someone else’s.”

  “Actually,” Trelenny confessed, “I got the idea from Miss Tooker. Do you know her?”

  “Yes.” Lady Jane’s eyes twinkled. “But I don’t think she chose that particular style.”

  “Well, no, but I thought it looked like fun. And don’t you think she’ll feel more comfortable if someone else has short hair? She seemed rather miserable.”

  Lady Jane pressed her hand. “That was sweet of you. Isn’t it wonderful when our own desires fall in with doing a good deed?”

  An impish smile dimpled Trelenny’s face. “Cranford once told me it’s called rationalization.”

  “Cranford is marvelously apt sometimes.” Lady Jane pointedly surveyed his scowling face. “Of course, at others he’s a stuffy pedant. You know, I don’t believe I’ve told you about the time he took Geoffrey to Newmarket. There was to be a match between him and Sir Lowell, but the night before—”

  “Very well.” Cranford spoke between tight lips. “Geof­frey shouldn’t have told you that, Jane. Good evening, Trelenny. You are looking... well. May I get you a glass of punch?”

  “Thank you, no,” Trelenny replied stiffly. She touched a finger to the butterfly clip to assure herself that it hadn’t come loose and began to back away from the couple. “It’s all right, Lady Jane. I. . . I knew he wouldn’t approve. Mama doesn’t either.” Flashing a hesitant smile at the older woman, she fled to her mother’s side and managed to keep her eyes averted from Cranford for the entire length of their stay at the drum. Of course, the task was made easier by the arrival of Mr. Rowle, who teased and flattered her alternately, but she could not entirely lift her spirits to their former level and, except for leaving Mr. Rowle behind, she was happy enough to leave the Cheynes for the ball.

  From across the room Lady Jane watched the departure of their party with worried eyes. “You are going to push her right into his arms with your disapproval, Cranford. Why should you care if she cut her hair? It looks adorable.”

  “She had beautiful hair, so long it came down to her waist, and it felt like silk.”

  Resisting the temptation to ask him how he knew, she responded astringently, “Then she probably had a great deal of trouble keeping pins in it, and that much hair piled about her head must have been most uncomfortable, and near impossible to keep tidy.”

  “She cut it to annoy me.”

  “You flatter yourself! She wanted to do something original—not look like everyone else. I have often had the same desire, but I lack the courage to carry it through. It’s easier when you’re young, of course, but still, I admire her.”

  “Admire her?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, for not letting herself be hedged in by traditions and conventions. And don’t tell me she isn’t aware of the rules, for I have no doubt Mrs. Storwood is a perfect model of propriety.”

  “She is. Would that her daughter followed in her foot­steps.”

  Lady Jane regarded him coolly. “If you feel that way, Cranford, I would advise you to abandon your pursuit of her. Trelenny doesn’t need a heavy hand, merely a guiding one. There’s Emily Harper beckoning to us. I should like a word with her.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Chairs were coming in and out of the Buttercrambes’ brilliantly lit hall with regularity, and still there was a line of them before the door, as well as several carriages awaiting their turn to disgorge their occupants at the entrance. Bewigged footmen in truly magnificent liveries showed no sign of haste as they opened carriage doors and lowered steps for their aristocratic employers. Let the common folk hurry; footmen were too conscious of their reflected dignity to fall to such vulgarity. Trelenny watched the scene with fascina­tion and amusement but none of the trepidation her mother experienced. For Mrs. Storwood this was Trelenny’s real testing, and she could not but feel that her daughter had put herself at a disadvantage with her unusual hairstyle. It was all very well for Elsa Waplington to laugh and call Trelenny a naughty puss; she had no daughter of her own to agonize over should the tide of opinion sway against her. Mrs. Storwood hardly noticed the satin-hung walls or the ice sculpture of a fabled sea monster; her eyes searched the room for some friendly, familiar face.

  At her elbow Mr. Wheldrake murmured encouragement. “She’ll do very well, Maria.”

  “But people are staring at her. That woman by the pillar is frowning and a gentleman across the room has lifted his quizzing glass with the most supercilious air. Oh, I shan’t be able to bear it if they ostracize her. She had so longed for her first ball.”

  “Here’s Lord Rissington coming to speak with her now. Never fear. Others will follow his lead.”

  Although Trelenny had not overheard the whispered conversation of her companions, she too had noticed raised eyebrows and knew a moment’s alarm. How comforting it would have been to have Cranford at her side! But no, his brows had been raised higher than any here. She held her head proudly and forced a smile to her lips; no one could intimidate a Storwood. Impeccable birth, unassailable breed­ing, and a more-than-respectable fortune stood behind her. Her eyes flashed a challenge to any who dared malign or laugh at her.

  As he approached, Rissington was struck by the figure she made. Incongruous, perhaps, the stature all dignity and the hair an elfin nonsense, but captivating, nonetheless. “If you are trying to frighten me off, I promise you I am made of sturdier stuff,” he informed her valiantly. “He who has not been quelled by the eye of Her Royal Highness refuses to allow any mortal to so much as make him tremble. Though I confess to a certain weakness in the knees, I do implore you to honor me with this set, for the eyes of the room are upon me, and if I don’t succeed I shall be shamed before them all.”

  “What a farago of nonsense! Have you met the Queen then? Is she so very forbidding?”

  “I have and she is. Cranford didn’t escort you this evening?”

  “No. We saw him at the Cheynes with Lady Jane.”

  “He’s always been very attached to the Reedness family. Shares a great many interests with Lady Jane. Old things, you know. Not my sort of style, but then, each to his own. Will you dance with me, Miss Storwood?”

  “Certainly, my lord, if you feel your knees are strong enough to support such activity.”

  Mrs. Storwood breathed easier after that initial set. As on the previous evening, there was no shortage of men to solicit her daughter’s hand, and, though she could not quite approve of the waltz, she was delighted to see that her daughter performed creditably. “I can see no reason,” Mrs. Waplington declared, “that she should not dance it, though perhaps it would be well if Mr. Wheldrake led her out the first time. Rissington is itching to do so, of course, but let us err on the side of caution. There will be another later in the evening for his lordship should he still desire it.”

  And he did desire it. Constituting himself as Trelenny’s escort in the absence of Cranford, Rissington propounded his extreme suitability as her partner above the claims of Mr. Bodford, who had just arrived and had yet to gain a solitary set with Miss Storwood.

  “The two of you make game with me,” she protested, laughing. “Mr. Bodford was so good as to see me through the shoals at the Hunsingores, and I believe I owe him this dance.”

  Surprised but pleased, Tony gallantly offered his arm. “Who’d have thought you’d choose me? It’s the only waltz left this evening, Miss Storwood.”

  “I know. Aren’t they glorious? I believe I could come to rank dancing the waltz second only to riding, given the opportunity.”

  “Frowned on it at first, the old tabbies. A lot of them still do. Won’t have it danced in their homes, and sit about cackling like a bunch of geese while their eyes fall out trying to see who’s holding whom too closely at someone else’s.”

  If Mr. Bodford stumbled against music stands in crowd
­ed parlors, he did not have any difficulty on the dance floor. He was, in fact, a superb dancer, unconsciously graceful and offhandedly entertaining. Trelenny retreated to her mother’s side flushed with pleasure, only to find Lord Rissington awaiting her there.

  “I’ve arranged for the dance after this next, which you may recall you have promised to me, to be a waltz. I hope that meets with your approval,” Rissington announced, his cherubic face beaming.

  “Told you he could get anything done,” Tony grum­bled.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Trelenny calculated that it would be at least the following Thursday before they would hear from her father. It had not occurred to Mrs. Storwood that her daughter thought they would be summoned home, so she had not mentioned that her own portion of the letter, which Trelenny with scrupulous integrity had not read, had indicated her willingness to stay in Bath for her daughter’s sake. Trelenny consequently expected to be summoned back to Westmorland in less than a week and threw herself energetically into the entertainments Bath had to offer. Saturday Mr. Rowle proved an excellent, per­sonable tour guide of the Abbey, winning Mrs. Storwood’s approbation and Trelenny’s dissatisfaction. (She had not yet succeeded in getting him to tell her of his adventures.) The evening’s occupation consisted of another ball at which she did not find him amongst the guests, though Lord Rissington and Mr. Bodford once again vied for her at­tention.

  Sunday Cranford, formidably polite, escorted them to the chapel for services and took his dinner in Henrietta Street, but excused himself afterwards for an engagement with Lady Jane. By Monday Trelenny had convinced herself that he no longer intended to offer for her, and that she might rejoice in her new freedom, which consisted largely of flirting (so her mother with palpitating heart called it as she bid Mr. Wheldrake good night) with all three of her beaux at the dress ball in the Upper Rooms. Although Mrs. Storwood felt it incumbent upon her to have a small chat with her daughter about the decorum of dangling three men after her all evening, Trelenny just grinned and said, “Oh, pooh, Mama. It is but a game with them. Have you seen the least sign that any one of them is serious in his intentions? I promise you I have not! They are forever quizzing me and calling me Mistress Mary. They say I am quite contrary, but it is just what they expect. Oh, Mama, can it be wrong to have a laugh with them?”

  “Well, no, dear, but they might receive the impression you are . . . a little . . . fast.”

  “How can you say so? Oh, I see what it is. It’s Cran­ford’s opinion you are really concerned for, is it not? You’re afraid he’ll not approve of all my beaux. Dear Mama, I hate to shatter your fondest dreams, but even you cannot doubt that he has desisted in his intentions. He only speaks when it is necessary, and then he is so coldly polite.”

  “But…but he asked your father for permission to pay his addresses to you, and he hasn’t even asked you!” There was a suspicion of tears in her voice, and she busied her fingers sorting the threads in her box.

  “Not formally, no. At Sutton Hall once…” Trelenny sighed. “He knew I wouldn’t marry him then, Mama, and he was too proud to ask where he would receive a refusal. I think he is developing an interest elsewhere.”

  “You mean Lady Jane? Yes, I have noticed his atten­dance on her. But surely they are old friends, Trelenny. Cranford would not go back on his word.”

  “Pray don’t talk so foolishly, Mama! I as good as told him I wouldn’t have him, so he is free to court whomever he pleases.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth to stop its trembling. How stupid to feel agitated about such a matter! Had she not for the past month and more declared her determination to reject him? Certainly he felt no remorse at her decision, and she was not so vain as to have wanted him to propose only so that she could give him her negative, so where was the problem? “I. . . I must go to my room and look out a shawl to wear with my dress tonight. The green one is snagged and won’t do.”

  “Why not borrow mine? Or better yet, shall we go to the shops and find a new one for you? There were some beautiful cashmere ones in Milsom Street. Your Papa meant for you to have something special.”

  “Tomorrow perhaps, Mama. For the card party I shall borrow yours if you won’t mind. I thought I would just read for a while in my room now.”

  “Are you feeling well, Trelenny?” her mother asked, all concern.

  “Of course, silly. Must I feel ill to read a book?” She gave her mother a quick hug and abruptly left the room. Although Mr. Rowle had queried her as to how she liked the book he had lent her, she couldn’t pick it up to read once she had gained her bedchamber. Instead she stared out the back window into the autumn garden, feeling as desolate as the day, which had become overcast and windy. As she watched, the rain began to fall, splashing against the sill and coursing down the panes, and it was a moment before she realized that her own tears had begun to fall as well. Dashing them away with an angry hand, she thought indignantly, well, really, it must be coming on to my time of month. How absurdly emotional I am! This really will not do.

  Looking about the room for some occupation, she rapid­ly discarded the magazines and her needlework. Absently she opened the lid of her jewelry box, which played a cheerful tune hardly in keeping with her mood. She snapped it shut, but a most peculiar idea had formed in her mind. In the little room opposite, which she and her mother had been given as a sitting room, there was a pianoforte. Suddenly it seemed very important that she practice. No matter that it had been months, perhaps years, since she had done so with any serious intent. Today she did.

  ~ ~ ~

  Two enormous rooms were filled with tables, some with green baize covers and a few with the two red and two black diamond-shaped marks denoting rouge et noir tables. Al­though a number of people stood about laughing and talking, the majority had settled down to the serious business of the evening—whist, piquet, quinze, macao, cassino, even faro. Mrs. Waplington allowed herself an evening at cards only once a week, for though she enjoyed the excitement, she very seldom found herself a winner. “You have to keep a clear head, my dear,” she told Trelenny, “and I become so caught up in the game that I hardly notice my glass being refilled. And if it is full, I will drink it, heaven knows. Find a table where the stakes are low or moderate and don’t hesi­tate to excuse yourself if the play gets over your head.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I shall try to follow your advice.”

  “Have you some money?” Mrs. Waplington dug in her reticule and came up with five guineas. “Here, enjoy your­self.”

  “Oh, thank you, no. I have sufficient for my needs,” Trelenny objected.

  “I always think so, too.” She laughed and pressed the coins into her guest’s hand. “You would do me a favor, love, for I just know that tonight I shan’t have the least luck.”

  Trelenny accepted the coins with every intention of returning them at the end of the evening. Her own money seemed more than enough for an evening’s play, even should she be so unfortunate as to have bad cards. Never once did she doubt her skill. For an hour she partnered a young man with whom she had danced at the previous night’s entertain­ment, and the following hour an elderly gentleman whose tendency to nap between plays caused her some confusion. With a certain amount of relief, she accepted Mr. Rowle’s invitation to join a table playing at macao, though the stakes were so high as to make her feel slightly uncomfortable. At most of the tables there was a businesslike buzz of conversa­tion, but at Mr. Rowle’s things were different. Laughter and high spirits reigned supreme here, though drink held a nota­ble place as well. No glass was ever below a quarter full that one of the participants did not wave a footman over to see it convivially replenished. Trelenny’s five guineas were soon gone, and the stack in front of Mr. Rowle grew consider­ably.

  Before another round could be dealt by Mr. Rowle, Trelenny rose a little unsteadily. “Thank you. I must look out my mother, so if you will excuse me...”

  Mr. Rowle was instantly on his feet. “Pray don’t deprive us of y
our company, Miss Storwood! Your mother and Mr. Wheldrake are just there on the sofa, and I dare say would be none the happier for being interrupted.”

  Trelenny turned startled eyes in the direction he indicat­ed and found that indeed Mrs. Storwood and her companion seemed to be enjoying themselves to the exclusion of any other person in the room. Seldom did Mrs. Storwood look so animated as she did now, laughing and chatting happily to the apparent delight of Mr. Wheldrake. Uneasily Trelenny re­sumed her seat and allowed herself to be once again drawn into the camaraderie of the little group. Another half hour saw the disappearance of her own money and she rose again.

  “There. I am cleaned out! Please excuse me.”

  Mr. Rowle’s countenance registered shock, as though she had committed a social solecism. Again he rose and stood beside her but spoke in a kindly whisper. “I see what it is. You are not used to our Bath card parties. One never admits to being rolled up; it makes the other players uncomfortable, you know. We’re a friendly group, Miss Storwood. Any one of us would be happy to accept your note of hand.”

  A hasty glance at her mother, still cheerfully engaged in conversation, assured her that that excuse would not hold. “Mrs. Waplington thought it would not be a good evening for her, and I dare say she is searching for me, longing to be on her way.”

  “Ah, your hostess misjudged the fortunes of the evening, it would seem, for I saw her not ten minutes ago when I slipped into the other room, a handy pile of coins by her side and twinkling on her companions in the most superior way.”

  Since Mr. Waplington had not attended them, and Tre­lenny knew no one else in the rooms well enough to make them an excuse for leaving her companions, she returned to her seat with a frown. Professing delight at her return, the others plunged straightaway into the game again and Trelen­ny knew the embarrassment of having a footman bring paper and pen for her to scribble a chit. She began to pray that her mother or Mrs. Waplington would come for her, but they did not. Despite her refusal to take another sip of her wine, or her concentration on the cards, she continued to lose. Each time she signed a new chit, the others smiled encouragingly and hurried on with the game.