‘Some shopkeepers in Bath are ridiculous high and mighty,’ she says. ‘Pay no heed to the ill-natured fellow. I expect he took me for some duchess who failed to pay her bill last season. Now then, ladies, we’re almost there, you know. The West-gate is marvellous convenient for the baths. A mere hop and a step divides the two.’ As Miss Jane trips on a loose cobble, Mrs Buckley grasps her elbow and guides us into a square overlooked by a large building made of soft yellow stone, the entrance flanked by torches. ‘Prepare to be astonished,’ declares our hostess. ‘We’re about to enter the bath-house. Do you sense the heat?’
The evening is chilly, but my nostrils fill with something like rotten eggs, strong enough to make me wonder at those who drink the water if it tastes as foul as it smells. Miss Bridget covers her nose, then remembers her manners and takes her hand away.
‘See?’ Mrs Buckley says, nudging the girl’s arm. ‘They say those who need the waters find them pungent.’ She runs a finger down Miss Bridget’s inflamed cheek. ‘What did I say about those freckles? Such a shame you ladies cannot sample the hot bath, it being so late. I expect you would be shy at the prospect, would you not? And yet here it is usual and proper for all and sundry to bathe in scanty dress, and some little fellows and their sisters frolic in the suits God was pleased to have them wear on their birthdays, and why not? The benefits to health outweigh considerations of propriety and custom. Contact with the water on as great an area of the body as may be achieved is the thing.’ She throws back her head and I cannot help noticing that her neck resembles nothing so much as an old turkeyhen’s, and I wonder if Mrs Buckley can be quite the buxom young matron I took her for. Then she adjusts her neckerchief as if conscious of my judging eye, and I am ashamed at my unkindness.
At her invitation we join a line of visitors waiting to buy tickets in the entrance to the bath-house. Few are the invalids I expected to see; most are well-dressed, and from their lively chatter appear in rude good health. A lady in a low-cut satin gown and bright pink petticoat fans herself as a gentleman offers a stream of compliments. When he turns I am shocked to recognise Mr Cheatley, whose nose is redder than it was this afternoon. He even staggers a little as though the worse for drink.
‘Are all these people here for the waters, Mrs Buckley?’ I hear the doubt in my voice. Indeed, one or two of the ladies have so much flesh exposed I wonder to see them among people of quality. ‘Surely they aren’t invalids?’
‘To take the waters, yes, and also to spectate, and saunter, and be amused. Some of the fair sex will be dressing after their immersion, and readying themselves for supper. You will soon see how popular the place is.’ As proof of her words Mrs Buckley curtseys to three young men in velvet coats who turn at the sound of her voice and salute her familiarly, one kissing her hand before letting go with lingering regret and following his friends inside.
‘Admirers of mine, though I see you smile, Miss Amesbury. You think me vain.’
‘No indeed, Madam.’ I want to say that she is handsome for a woman her age, and that her gown is as fine as any I can see, but we have reached the ticket-master at last and before I have time to deliver my compliment she unties her purse.
‘Good evening to you. Yes indeed, four tickets to spectate. I thank you, Sir.’ She transfers the monies without my seeing coins change hands, and the official gives her four printed slips which she folds and tucks into her purse in a few swift movements. ‘There now, ladies, a treat awaits you. The Romans would be astonished at the enlargement of the pools since their time. There’s room in the greatest for five dozen bathers, you know.’
‘I can’t believe there will be much to see at this time of night,’ I murmur to Miss Bridget as we move through. And yet the hubbub of voices implies the opposite.
‘I suppose Mrs Buckley knows the customs here a little better than you do, Miss Amesbury. There are plenty of folk about at least.’
We arrive on a long, low balcony or covered terrace surrounding a sunken bathing-place. No one is in the water but people of all ages throng the balcony: women of fashion, ladies in bathing-dresses and frilled caps, as well as one or two scantily clad children with deformities such as bandy legs and sway-backs; but by far and away the largest group is that of young men in laced frock-coats and curled wigs, and most bow to Mrs Buckley and eye us girls with cheerful curiosity. I am not very comfortable under such scrutiny, and wish our hostess would let them know we gain no pleasure from the men’s smiles and lifted eyebrows. But when one tall gentleman with a monocle has the impudence to turn that device upon us, Mrs Buckley merely smiles and pokes my rib as if to say she shares our triumph over the male sex.
‘I wish I could jump in this minute,’ Miss Jane says, leaning so far over the balustrade she risks the granting of her wish. ‘I love a swim.’
‘Oh, so do I,’ I tell her, suddenly remembering Well-Head Pond at home, and the long summer days we spent before and after harvest-time when we were children. ‘My sisters, Meg and Liz, and I often used to swim.’
‘Indeed, Miss Amesbury.’ Miss Bridget is scathing. ‘In our village swimming was left to the lads.’
‘In Erlestoke girls swam as much as the boys. My father used to say he was glad of it, having seen a man fall in the River Frome and drown in a yard of water. We slipped down to the pool early, before the lads were about. None saw us.’
‘Or so you thought,’ Miss Bridget sniggers.
‘Remember when you fell in the horse-pond, sister?’ Miss Jane asks, pink-faced. She laughs. ‘What a whipping Father gave you for the state of your clothes.’
‘I’m surprised you remember, Jane, since you weren’t above three years old at the time. Sure you’re not confusing it with the day our Lenny pushed you in the dung-hill? There was no fuss about spoiled clothes that day—you weren’t hardly wearing any.’
‘Ladies, ladies. You are not on the farm now.’ Mrs Buckley waggles her finger in mock-reproof. ‘See that personage over there, a little to the left? Is she not a great beauty? That gentleman there in the dark red coat, he is wildly in love with her, you know, even though the lady is betrothed already to the gentleman in the hat with the ostrich feather. Do you see him? He is very handsome and rich, and yet all believe the lady would elope with the other if she could. Her father prevents it; he is a viscount, you know. She dares not thwart him.’
I wonder at Mrs Buckley’s knowledge of these people; she seems acquainted with all of Bath. To think she is familiar with such quality at first hand, those with titles as well as money, is astonishing. The sisters Lamborne have descended to sly pinches, carrying on their quarrel by covert means, while Mrs Buckley rests her elbows on the balustrade as if content to pass another hour in contemplation of the bath and its visitors.
‘It is very busy here, Madam,’ I say, beginning a speech in which I plan to argue for an early return to our lodgings; but Mrs Buckley is distracted by the arrival of a group of gentlemen in showy coats and breeches, and seems not to hear me. She waves at one of the party, who has the sauce to blow us a kiss.
Miss Bridget, too entranced by the bath to notice, leans over the balustrade and gazes at the water.
‘Is it deep?’ she asks.
‘Amazing so,’ Mrs Buckley says, attentive to her guests again. She points at a smaller pool on the far side. ‘The Queen’s bath behind the Great Pump is preferred by the ladies. That may explain the numbers of gentlemen idling at its edges,’ she adds archly. To my dismay she makes another signal, urging the new arrivals to join us.
‘I wish they wouldn’t stare,’ I say, as one of the approaching gallants lifts his wide-brimmed hat and peers at me.
Mrs Buckley straightens up. ‘Goodness, you are nice for a girl come from the country.’ She shoves my shoulder as if she hardly credits my shyness. ‘Did you not have sweethearts among your hedge-cutters and plough-men? These are elegant men about town who clearly consider the three of you very pretty. And why should they not? Come, ladies, walk this way. It is why people come
here of an evening, you know—to see and be seen. Give me your cloaks, they are not needed while we are under cover. Let these gentlemen admire your smooth, young shoulders. Good evening to you, Sirs.’
‘Good evening,’ they chorus, bowing.
‘Thank you, ma’am, I had rather keep mine on.’ I clutch my collar as if I expect Mrs Buckley to undress me forthwith, but Miss Jane has no such fears. She undoes her ribbons and, stripped of her cloak, holds herself tall, preening as the gentlemen form a kind of loose circle around us and bite their lips at the sight of her plump figure.
‘Why, Miss Jane, how elegant you are,’ Mrs Buckley says, and glances round to gauge her audience’s agreement. I am surely mistaken when I think one man gives her a nod, and when I check a moment later he is looking the other way quite innocently, so I think I imagined a connection between him and Mrs Buckley which does not exist. Nonetheless I am uneasy, all the more so when Miss Jane begins to rearrange her muslin neckerchief the better to display her bosom.
‘Should we not return to the West-gate now?’ I ask Miss Bridget under my breath. ‘I don’t care for being paraded like a beast at auction.’
She huffs. ‘Gracious, Miss Amesbury. Like Mrs Buckley said, you are a stuck-in-the-mud, ain’t you? For those of us beginning work tomorrow, a little fun tonight don’t come amiss.’ One gentleman, who sports a dark green riding-coat faced with scarlet, lifts his hat, and Miss Bridget juts out her chest and pouts as if she would let him kiss her if he dared.
Another gentleman grins and tries to take my hand, but I whip it away.
‘Mrs Buckley,’ I say loudly.
She looks at me in bland surprise. ‘Don’t tell me you’ll hold out against an evening of pleasure, Miss Amesbury. There is always one prude, is there not?’ She addresses this question to another pair of gentlemen who loll close by, and who fall to sighing and tutting to indicate they share her regret at my aloofness. The elder of the two, a greybeard with deep-set cunning eyes, steps forward to offer me his arm.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss,’ he says to Miss Bridget. ‘But you’ll admit your friend is an uncommon beauty. As are you all, of course. May I ask you to walk with me a little, Madam?’
‘No, Sir, thank you, Sir.’ When he continues to hold out his arm I add forcefully: ‘I am tired.’
The gentleman pulls down his mouth into a show of disappointment before holding his arm out to Miss Bridget. She shakes her head, but by her fluttering eyelashes lets him know she is by no means averse to the offer.
I decide to appeal to Mrs Buckley’s mercy.
‘Please, ma’am, I would like so much to return to the inn now.’ I lower my voice. ‘These gentlemen are playing with us, I don’t like it.’
For the briefest moment I glimpse a flash of what might be anger in her eyes before her manner changes.
‘Miss Amesbury, forgive me. I thought to divert you and your friends for an hour or two while you were in Bath. It was foolish of me to think you would enjoy yourselves in a place esteemed by people older and so much worldlier than you are. The three of you are good, sweet country girls, and I am sure you are ready for your beds. Excuse us, gentlemen. These ladies long to retire. They thank you for your compliments and I assure you, Sirs, they will all be in bed within the hour.’ Her careless reference to bed raises a snigger from her listeners, though to my great relief the men withdraw, casting back only one or two regretful glances as we move off.
Mrs Buckley leads us further down the covered walk.
‘Is the exit not the same way we came in?’ I say. The candles are few here, and there are scarcely any walkers. In an alcove a lady and gentleman are locked in an embrace, too engrossed to look up as we pass.
‘Oh no, dear. The exit is quite other than the entrance where we bought our tickets. Now then, I have a very good proposal for you all, by way of rounding off the evening. Before we return to the West-gate we shall call on my dear old friend Mrs Charlton. She is quite elderly and frail, alas, but she is uncommonly fond of young people and would be more pleased than I can express if we was to visit her now, just for a short while, you know.’
I remember my sister Meg’s insistence that I should on no account accept an invitation from any person on my journey, however friendly-seeming they might be, and feel a shiver in my insides when I consider I have already accepted hospitality from Mrs Buckley, even if, thankfully, it has been without evil consequences.
‘You are very kind, Mrs Buckley,’ I tell her firmly, ‘but I had better say goodnight.’
‘I would like to meet your friend, Mrs Buckley,’ Miss Bridget says. ‘Even if others can think only of their beds.’
Her spite, though I am used to it by now, is stinging, and to insist on returning to the West-gate does, I confess, seem ungracious when the sisters are so agreeable.
‘Very well,’ I say. ‘As long as the visit is quick. I am weary, you see, having started out so early this morning.’
‘You are a sapling, Miss Amesbury, with all the freshness and vigour of your tender years. See how much stronger you are than you imagine. It is almost yester morning since you left home. The abbey clock struck eleven a moment ago—did you not hear?’
My heart thumps. ‘I did not. In that case …’
‘No, no, I brook no objections. Half an hour to meet my oldest friend is all I ask.’ Mrs Buckley hands over the sisters’ garments. ‘Put on your cloaks again, dears, just for the moment’s walk to Mrs Charlton’s house.’ She rearranges her own shawl and looks expectantly from face to face. ‘I said this was the way out, did I not?’
We come to a side-gate that I cannot think is used by many visitors to the baths, being low and damp underfoot, and the passageway beyond it poorly lit, but Mrs Buckley unfastens the latch as if she uses it every day of her life.
‘Mrs Charlton lives just around this corner. Take care, Miss Jane, the way is slippery.’
Looming over us is a great, dark church with soaring pinnacles.
‘But this isn’t West-gate street where we came in,’ I say, bewildered. ‘Mrs Buckley, where are we?’
‘No, indeed. This is Abbey-street. And this the abbey, which used to be full of monks and nuns and now is a church where the rich and titled come to worship. Such a shame you cannot be here on Sunday to see them parading through the square in their finery. But come along, ladies. Mrs Charlton will be enchanted to meet you.’
I am glad to be away from the baths and their gawping gentlemen, but I do not like the look of the dingy street ahead.
‘Mrs Buckley, we don’t know Mrs Charlton. Past eleven o’clock is late to call on a lady we have never met.’
‘Mrs Charlton is my friend. She will not be happy, I assure you, until she has offered a glass of her delicious elderberry cordial to my new young acquaintances.’
‘Elderberry cordial?’ Miss Jane cries eagerly. ‘We only have that once a year. Mother makes it for Christmas, don’t she, Bridie?’
‘Ah, your dear mother. Such a clever housekeeper. And how proud she must be of her beautiful daughters.’
‘Beautiful? I should say so! I never saw such lovelies.’
We spin round to find a gentleman striding towards us. His brocade waistcoat gleams in the light from the abbey porch, and I am nearly certain he is the older gentleman with the hard, deep-set eyes who tried to give me his arm when we were in the bath-house.
‘Sir Roger,’ exclaims Mrs Buckley. ‘You are all chivalry, indeed you are. To escort us to my friend’s house, too kind, Sir.’
He bows. ‘Your servant, Madam. As ever. And yours, dear ladies.’ This time he eyes Miss Jane with particular interest, and she bobs a curtsey and lets out a nervous giggle.
‘Well, what do we wait for? Proceed,’ the gentleman says, waving us towards a narrow lane and following close behind ‘til Mrs Buckley stops.
‘Here is Mrs Charlton’s house,’ she says. ‘Just as I knew, the lights are on. She’s expecting us.’
‘The other fellows will be here dire
ctly, Madam,’ the gentleman says. He has unfastened his coat already, as if he assumes he is invited in. ‘They merely wished to pay a brief call at a tavern, you understand.’
‘Ah! Like all young bucks, they seek to enjoy themselves to the utmost. You see, dear ladies, they know that Mrs Charlton abjures strong spirits, and they do not wish to embarrass her by asking for refreshments she has not the wherewithal to provide.’
The building before us is smaller and shabbier than most cottages in Erlestoke; its sole glazed window is cracked and dirty. I try to tell myself that perhaps this is usual in Bath, where the houses are crammed together and the passage of people and vehicles must throw up mud.
‘I wish we were about to climb up to our garret at the West-gate,’ I whisper to Miss Bridget.
‘Heavens, Miss Amesbury.’ She gives a sour little laugh. ‘An old lady invalid cannot be a danger to us. Speaking for myself, I shall be glad to take the weight off my feet while we take our cordial.’
So eager is she indeed that she sweeps past me to join Mrs Buckley on the doorstep, whereupon Miss Jane clutches at my arm.
‘I never thought I would find friends so quick when I left home today, did you, Miss Amesbury?’ She points back at the way we came and together we gaze up at the abbey, shadowy and vast. Miss Jane thrusts her face at mine, gasping a little at her clumsiness as she loses her footing once again. ‘Those beautiful shops, those gentlemen so handsome and admiring. I believe I shall never forget my night in Bath, shall you?’ She hiccups. ‘And it ain’t over yet, that’s the best of it.’
Chapter Four
A shutter swings open, spilling candlelight across the cobbles. I hear drunken laughter and catch a waft of tobacco smoke. Mrs Buckley produces a key, alarming me with the thought she is no mere visitor to the house; but before she fits it in the lock the door flies open and a party of gentlemen bursts forth, shouting and bearing aloft one of their number. Their victim shouts and wriggles frantically.
A Pair of Sharp Eyes Page 3