Holiday in Bath

by Laura Matthews

  “You might be leaving so soon? Cranford had not mentioned that.”

  Trelenny was unable to tell if the news distressed Lady Jane, who was too well-bred to show more than mild surprise. “We are supposed to be here for another two weeks, almost, but my mother was disturbed about Papa, so it will depend on what he writes.”

  “I see.” Lady Jane rose and pressed Trelenny’s hand. “I hope all is well with your father, and that you will be able to make your whole stay. It would be sad for you to leave so soon.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The eagerly awaited letter did not arrive that morning, but the next, and Trelenny breathlessly listened as her mother read its contents. They were to stay. There never seemed to have been any question about it in anyone else’s mind but her own! Mrs. Storwood sighed a great deal, and Cranford, who had called to take Trelenny riding if she were free, accepted the verdict as a foregone conclusion. What he could not accept so readily was Lady Jane’s report on her interview with Trelenny. When he had asked if she had been able to convince the girl of Mr. Rowle’s undesirable character, she would say no more than “Miss Storwood is miles ahead of us, Cranford. Just let her be; she knows what she’s doing.” Although he had a great deal of confidence in Lady Jane, and they had been friends for years, he could not accept this casual dismissal of a potentially tragic situation. And the more he pressed, the more reserved she became until they had nearly quarreled over the matter.

  His presence in Henrietta Street the next morning was the result of another restless night. He was plagued by dreams in which Trelenny figured as Rowle’s wife, impoverished by his reckless expenditures and careworn by his neglect of her. Yet again and again he saw them kissing, her piquant face lifted to his with eagerness, a dream which never failed to bring him awake, distraught. And there was no solace in the reading of Emma. The kinship he had felt for Mr. Knightly from the start continued through the last page; and the recognition of Emma as an older Trelenny, with glaring faults and lovable virtues, wrenched him from the state of nervous suspension in which he had existed for days. What he had considered impossible had happened—he had fallen in love with the little imp.

  The knowledge was not to prove an alleviation of his discomfort, however. He was no closer than he had ever been to winning her consent to a match between them, and, when he viewed the situation as rationally as he was able, he was not sure such a match would be a good thing—for her. Could he trust himself not to squelch her liveliness, or depress her ebullient spirits? Would he make allowance for her youth and inexperience or demand a behavior in keeping with his own recently acquired respectability? Surely both Bodford and Rissington were more likely to make her happy. Well, not Bodford, perhaps; that would be the blind leading the blind. But Rissington? Was he serious this time? Trelenny’s off­handed acceptance of his pursuit had piqued his interest, certainly, but that did not answer the question. Rissington had a facility for sliding through that narrow alley of escape which barely precedes the point of no return: that stage at which one has paid such obvious addresses to a young lady that it amounts to a breach of honor not to offer for her.

  Apparently some of these questions were on Trelenny’s mind as well, he decided unhappily as they took the Claver­ton Down Road beyond the New Canal. Her eyes sparkled from the gallop he had agreed to once they turned right from the Sydney Garden and came to open country.

  “How I’ve longed for a ride! Somehow I had not expected that life in town could be so devoid of that simple pleasure. Mr. Rowle offered to take me riding once, but I didn’t think Mama would allow me. Which reminds me, Cranford. Is it custom­ary for your friends Lord Rissington and Mr. Bodford to pay so much attention to the same lady? I heard a tale which I do not credit, I promise you, but there was a grain of truth in it, I think.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “That last year they made sport of a Miss Ponsonby, to settle a wager as to which could engage her affections.”

  “I should hope you wouldn’t believe anything of that nature,” he replied sternly. “Rissington and Bodford do have an unfortunate penchant for finding the same ladies of interest, it is true, but I would stake my honor that they never did anything so reprehensible. I wasn’t in Bath last year but I remember hearing that Hugh Ponsonby’s sister came here with her mother. She was engaged to a Major Brewster, I believe, and has since married him, so I think your bit of gossip was a mere fabrication.”

  “Probably. I had it from a most unreliable source.”

  “Who?”

  “Just an acquaintance. Cranford, Lord Rissington is known for his flirting, isn’t he?”

  Cranford wished to be scrupulously honest in his answer and yet not undermine his friend’s reputation. “It might perhaps be more fair to say that he has not yet lived up to the speculation he often provokes when he dances attendance on a lady. The gossips are all too ready to see in his slightest attentions the food they need for a blossoming and entirely imaginary match. Rissington is just the sort of fellow the matchmakers can’t resist leg-shackling every time he does the pretty.” He frowned at a row of entirely innocuous beech trees. “That is not to say that at any time he might not find a woman with whom he would choose to spend his life. I have never heard him denigrate the married state; on the contrary, he speaks of it with the proper respect and honor."

  Trelenny giggled. “Do you know how pompous you sound, Cranford? Wherever do you learn such stilted lan­guage? All I wanted to know was if Rissington was a flirt, and obviously he is.”

  “I didn’t say that!” he protested, but with a grin. “Per­haps he is, but you’re leading him a merry dance, so I doubt it matters. He’s a good sort, Trelenny, and Bodford, too, but Mr. Rowle. . . God knows I don’t want to set your back up, but do you know who he is?”

  “Should I?” she asked, drawing in her horse.

  “He’s Miss Moreby’s stepbrother, and the reason she and Mr. Laytham found it necessary to elope to Gretna Green.”

  An enormous grin spread over her face, making her eyes dance and dimpling her cheeks. “Is that so? How wonderful! Perhaps I shall get my money’s worth after all.”

  A horrid suspicion was growing in Cranford. “You have some mischief up your sleeve, don’t you, Trelenny? God, I could find it in my heart to pity the poor devil! Come, my girl, what wild scheme are you hatching?”

  “Nothing of any moment, Cranford. Don’t press me! My lips are sealed,” she announced, making the childish gesture of locking them and tossing the key away.

  “You could catch cold at this, Trelenny. Don’t underes­timate Mr. Rowle, I beg you. Does Jane know what you are about?”

  Instantly the funning left her. “She won’t tell you. She promised.”

  “Yes, and we are scarcely speaking to each other be­cause of it.”

  Sadly penitent, Trelenny lowered her eyes. “You mustn’t blame her, Cranford. Even to one’s…friends it is wrong to break a confidence. You didn’t force me to tell you something I shouldn’t once, and how much more so should you respect Lady Jane’s silence?”

  He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. “I wish you would tell me what you’re up to.”

  “You make too much of it, Cranford. It’s just a lark. Shall we turn back?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Have you seen the Roman antiquities?” she asked brightly. “Lady Jane and the Earl must know where they are to be found.”

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  Mrs. Storwood, hands clasped nervously at her bosom, entered the sitting room one morning several days later to announce in a quavering voice, “Mr. Rowle desires to speak with you, love. That is, I have said he may address you. What else could I say? Your father isn’t here. We have only a short stay left! Pray don’t be hasty in your answer! I think you would be wise to insist on his meeting your father first if you... Trelenny, has he won your heart? I cannot be easy about him, try as I will. Don’t see this as your only chance, I beg you. I have already de
termined to see that you get about more in Westmorland. And something could perhaps be arranged—”

  Trelenny interrupted her. “Hush, love. I have no inten­tion of accepting Mr. Rowle, but you mustn’t let on.”

  “You don’t... Oh. I am so relieved. Shall I send him away?”

  “Heavens, no! It is clearly my duty to see him; only then will he realize how determined is my refusal. You must give no sign to him of my answer, Mama.”

  “Yes, well, if that is your wish, dear.”

  Mr. Rowle’s demeanor was nicely arranged to convey his respect, his hopes, and his nervousness on such a momentous occasion. Trelenny rose from her seat at the pianoforte to give him her hand, which he lifted to his lips for a fleeting moment. “How kind of you to call, Mr. Rowle.”

  “Did your mother not hint at my errand?” he asked, surprised.

  “Should she have?”

  “Why, no, not necessarily. I have the greatest admiration for your mother and have no doubt she thought the matter best discussed between us without any comment forthcoming from her.” This thought seemed to give him a great deal of satisfaction; in his eyes it spelled her accord with the match. “You could not have failed to note the development of my regard for you these past weeks, Miss Storwood. I fear I am not so artful as to have been able to hide it from you.” He offered a deprecating grin.

  Unmoved, Trelenny said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Rowle?”

  If this mundane comment gave him pause, he showed no sign. It was just the sort of inane remark a young girl would make to cover her confusion. Although he would have pre­ferred her to sit with him on the sofa, the very fact that she chose to perch herself rigidly on a white and gold Greek chair of no notable comfort encouraged him to think that she did not trust herself in too close quarters with him. He smiled lovingly. “I have no need, I think, to tell you how I admire your understanding and amiability. Have I been remiss in mentioning your obvious beauty? I won’t say that it doesn’t weigh with me, but it pales into insignificance when compared with your noble spirit. Such goodness of heart is a rare quality, Miss Storwood, and to be prized above all else.”

  Trelenny wore a perplexed frown. “I am sure you are all graciousness to say so, Mr. Rowle, but is it not a bit presumptuous of you? My mother would not, I fear, wish me to listen to such encomiums from so recent an acquain­tance.”

  He leaped to his feet and possessed himself of her hands. “You do not understand, my dear! I mean no disrespect. Quite the opposite, I assure you. My errand—nay, my mis­sion in life!—is to make you my wife.”

  “Your wife!” Trelenny stared horror-stricken at his sup­plicating face. “Marry you? What can you be thinking of?” She tore her hands from his grip and, rising, walked agitated­ly about the room. “My dear Mr. Rowle! I am an heiress, of a very old and distinguished family. It is my understanding that you have no more than a house in Bath. No estate, nothing. In fact, the house here is your father’s and already inhabited by several people. You cannot seriously expect me to consider aligning myself with you. Why, I have every intention of forming a brilliant alliance, establishing a dynasty!” she informed him majestically. “I have enjoyed your company during my stay here and would not for the world cause you any distress, of course. Had I realized that you would presume to regard our acquaintance in such a light…Ah, I believe I understand. You are teasing me, aren’t you, as you often do?”

  A dull red suffused his face and he found it difficult to speak. “I do not consider the discussion of matrimony a matter for jesting, Miss Storwood. I thought you shared my. . . that is, you have led me to believe that you found me acceptable.”

  “As a companion during my holiday! You have paid tribute to me, as others have, and I sincerely thank you for entertaining me! I don’t deny that you have made my stay an amusing one. For marriage, though, I must look a great deal higher than you!”

  Angry sparks darted from his eyes. “Did it amuse you then to let me kiss you?”

  “I thought it would.” She sighed, meeting his eyes with a pitying gaze. “Perhaps your ardor is not what you imagine it, Mr. Rowle, for I can imagine a brother kissing a sister just so. I wouldn’t be discouraged, though, for you may yet meet a woman who arouses some passion in you.”

  For a moment she thought she had gone too far. He clenched his fists at his sides and muttered through narrowed lips, “I doubt you know a great deal about the matter, Miss Storwood. If you have hopes that Lord Rissington or Mr. Bodford will offer for you, I fear you are sadly disillu­sioned.”

  “Offer for me? Why, of course not! Did you not yourself inform me how they treated poor Miss Ponsonby? I have standards, Mr. Rowle!” she informed him in a slightly raised voice. “Not only do I expect to ally myself with a man of birth, breeding, and fortune, but integrity as well.”

  “It is Mr. Ashwicke you have in mind, then?” he asked sweetly.

  “God forbid! Did you not see him in the gardens with a married woman? Do you think it has not come to my attention that he has behaved in a most unbecoming manner with her? Let another carry such a burden about with her. The man I marry must come with a spotless reputation!”

  “I hope you don’t think my own reputation…” He allowed the sentence to fade away, assuming in his turn a dignity born of experience and determination.

  “I promise you I have not so much as considered your reputation, Mr. Rowle. Since you are not qualified on any other…on other accounts, it was wholly unnecessary. If I have in my inexperience led you to believe that I would welcome this offer from you, I must humbly beg your pardon. Not for the world would I foster such a hope in a man’s breast where there is no possibility of his achieving his goal. You must admit that you have given no indication of serious intent. As with the others, there has been a great deal of high spirits and teasing, which we have all enjoyed, have we not? Not so do I see the man whom I shall marry. He will have dignity and reserve, a thorough understanding of politics and religion, very little taste for the senseless life of the ton and a desire to cater to my extravagant whims.”

  “And where do you expect to meet this man?” Mr. Rowle asked, his polite tone tinged with sarcasm. “In your Westmorland backwater?”

  “Well, he might seek me out there; I imagine my fame will spread from Bath, don’t you? However, I consider it more likely that I will meet him in London.”

  “I thought it was impossible for you to go to London because of your father’s condition.”

  “Did you? I see. And you assumed that if I had not found a partner here in Bath, I would take any partner who suggested himself? A lowering thought.”

  Mr. Rowle was at the limit of his resources and his temper. With an exaggerated bow, he said coldly, “I am sorry if I have imposed upon you, Miss Storwood. I confess to having had no idea of the heights to which you aspire.” She smiled benevolently on his sneer, further discomposing him. “If you will excuse me...”

  “Certainly, Mr. Rowle. I do hope I shall see you at the Cosgroves’ this evening.”

  As Mr. Rowle made his exit, blackly scowling, Cranford entered the house in Henrietta Street and allowed Mrs. Storwood to take him to the sitting room, where they found Trelenny convulsed with giggles. She covered her mouth and pressed her side, but could not control them well enough to offer Cranford a welcome. When she had recovered sufficient­ly, as she was forced to do under their reproving stares, she gasped, “It was worth the money, every penny of it. Did you see him?” Another burst of giggles overtook her. “And I never laughed in his face. Lady Jane was quite right; it was much more rewarding this way.”

  Mrs. Storwood, shocked out of her usual patience, said sharply, “I cannot see anything the least amusing in refusing an offer, Trelenny. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Dear Mama, please don’t be cross. He fleeced me out of twenty guineas, and he had every minute of his put-down coming to him. Imagine his thinking he could cozzen me into marrying him.”

  Although Cranford had
understood a great deal more of Trelenny’s remarks than her mother had, he could not feel easy about the situation. “Just what did you tell him, Trelenny?" ­Under the piercing black eyes, all her amusement desert­ed her and she collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh. Instead of answering him directly, she sought her mother’s eyes, and said, “You will remember the card party at which I lost some money. Well, it amounted to more than twenty guineas and I knew that Mr. Rowle and his friends were not playing fairly with me. I couldn’t say anything at the time and I found it difficult to leave their table. The long and short of it is, Mama, that I let him think me a great heiress so that he would offer for me, and I could refuse him. Lady Jane didn’t think it wrong of me,” she said with a defiant glare at Cranford. “It was much the same sort of thing you had her do that night Lord Babthorpe caused such a rumpus here at the card table.”

  Cranford was not impressed. “Lady Jane is a great deal more experienced than you in dealing with such people. What suggestion did she make?”

  “I had intended to laugh at him, and she said it would be better to act surprised at his presumption, as though he were reaching too far above himself.”

  “Which he was,” Cranford muttered.

  Mrs. Storwood had resorted to her handkerchief, but not her vinaigrette. “I think, dear, that you would have been wisest to have had Cranford simply warn him off. Not that I condone what he did! Mr. Rowle has shown himself an unconscionable reprobate, but I’m afraid you are only too willing to indulge in such adventures, love. It would be a great deal more becoming in you to keep a distance from such a person and remain aloof from an escapade in which you do not show to advantage.”

  The censure, perhaps, was mild but having it delivered in front of Cranford made Trelenny feel like a naughty child, and an embarrassed flush stained her cheeks. “Yes, Mama. Would you excuse me?”