Lady of the Lock

by Bancroft, Blair

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” the younger girl cried. “You are our savior.” She fell on Mandy, hugging her tight.

  “You are welcome,” Mandy returned hastily, “but your joy may be a trifle precipitate. It is now necessary to return the way I came.” Agnes’s sobs once again split the crisp winter air. “Kindly stop that,” Mandy snapped. “I would not have said it if I thought you such a watering pot. I paid close attention on the way in. We’ll be out in trice.”

  Even as the maid mumbled apologies, Mandy shooed the two women into line behind her and set off down the path. Fortunately, the return journey was without incident, and in what seemed like no time at all, they were nodding to the gatekeeper and exiting the maze.

  “How can I ever thank you?” Miss Oglethorpe cried. “You are too, too good.”

  “I fear I am frequently considered a hoyden,” Mandy returned, eyes sparkling as she sensed how much more she knew about the world than the fair-haired girl standing before her. “Do you go to the Pump Room? My Aunt Tynsdale and I plan to be there tomorrow morning.”

  This seemingly innocent question precipitated a torrent of words. Miss Oglethorpe, it seemed, was the daughter of a vicar. She and her mama had come to town in search of lodgings for after the holiday season. As the eldest of three sisters, Miss Oglethorpe confided, she was expected to make a good match and sponsor her sisters into society. Bath, her mama said, was a fine place to polish her manners before descending on London for the Season.

  London. Inwardly, Mandy sighed, reality quashing what was left of her air dreams. No Almack’s for the daughter of John Merriwether, canal engineer.

  The young ladies, after agreeing on a time to meet at the Pump Room the following morning, set off together down the hill. At the fountain in Laura Place, Mandy bid her new friend farewell, but not before giving detailed directions back to their temporary lodgings near the Pump Room.

  Mandy continued to watch as Miss Henrietta Oglethorpe and Agnes trudged across Pulteney Bridge. How very fine to be assured of one young and friendly face when she made her first grown-up appearance in the Pump Room. If, that is, the country miss and her quivering reed of a maid found their way back to mama.

  Mandy sighed, feeling a hundred years older than the babes in the woods she had rescued from the cul de sac in the maze. A thin smile traced her lips. There was a great deal to be said for approaching her looming début knowing there was someone her own age to talk to, someone less knowledgeable in the ways of the world than herself. Someone, she discovered with surprise, for whom she felt responsible.

  A sweet young thing, raised in a vicarage, and the Lady of the Lock, raised in the midst of navvies and ambitious young engineers. Mandy sighed. It was entirely possible Miss Oglethorpe’s mama would nip their acquaintance in the bud. Rather like a certain arrogant duke she could name.

  Chapter Five

  January 1808

  She’d been such a fool! She had allowed her dreams to soar, only to be crushed almost as flat as the day Montsale bid her goodbye. Not that the water gushing from the fountain in the Pump Room had not tasted as perfectly nasty as it always did when she succumbed to Hetty’s dare to try it. The crystal chandeliers sparkled in the dull winter light, the orchestra played with its customary precision and even an occasional dash of joie de vivre. But the only true excitement in Bath for the past few weeks had been a panoply of fireworks in Sydney Gardens on the eve of the new year. A rather nice mix of set pieces and airborne fireworks, Mandy had to concede, but her almost daily visits to the Pump Room, accompanied by her papa, had fallen decidedly flat.

  It seemed every habitué of Bath not cursed by the most hard-hearted relatives or those unable to put aside enmity of family members they considered a “curst rum touch” departed the city in droves for the delights of spending the holidays in the bosom of their families. The Dowager Lady Carewe was among those who had left her grand apartments in the Royal Crescent for a visit to Castle Carewe, leaving Mandy decidedly glum. Even her new friend, Miss Oglethorpe, had returned home for the holidays.

  All of which left Mandy exposed to the gazes of the Bath quizzes, many of them too elderly to parade about the room, sitting instead in chairs along the wall, and inclined to look down their noses or peer through quizzing glances at Miss Amanda Merriwether. Octogenarians all. With possibly a nonagenarian or two among them. Mandy sighed. Never before had she seen Bath so sparse of company.

  Today, the only familiar face in the Pump Room, if one discounted those over fifty, was Mr. Tharp, who had turned up the day before the fireworks display. Mandy could only hope his arrival heralded an influx of more youthful faces. Though why he had found it necessary to follow them to Bath Mandy could only wonder.

  Truthfully, so far her Bath come-out had been as exciting as one of the snow flakes outside her window falling into the River Avon and being swept out to the Bristol Channel. Despite Aunt Tynsdale hearty reassurances, a sad disappointment.

  “Miss, Miss Amanda,” Josie, the Merriwether’s maid of all work, called through a crack in Mandy’s bedroom door. “The mister asks you to come down, Miss. You’ve company.”

  Thanks be! Mandy rushed to her pier glass, straightened her hair, pinched her cheeks. And then stared, chagrined, at her image. When had she become so featherbrained that a single visitor could set her in alt?

  This year, answered her inner voice. When you put up your hair, acquired the gowns of a lady of fashion, and only those above the age of seventy noticed.

  The caller was Mr. Tharp, and with the newfound wisdom of eighteen Mandy was suddenly aware that her greeting had perhaps been a trifle too warm, even though she had known her papa’s primary assistant for the better part of her life. There was a sudden gleam in his eye, something new about the way he looked at her. Oh, heavens, was this one of the pitfalls Aunt Tynsdale had warned her about?

  “If your father wanted you to marry an engineer, he would not have requested my help in presenting you to Bath society,” the dowager had declared, her plump face set in as stern lines. “You might consider them family, but brothers they are not. You must learn to hold yourself more aloof, child. Else how may we aspire to a grand match?”

  A grand match. To Aunt Tynsdale a grand match was a younger son with a minor estate, a vicar with a comfortable living. Perhaps the miracle of a younger son of a baronet. Not at all the grand match that filled Mandy’s dreams. And as for holding herself aloof from Mr. Tharp and Papa’s other engineers? Nonsense, sheer nonsense.

  But now that she’d seen that spark in Mr. Tharp’s eyes . . .

  “I expect Luke Appleton may spend some time in Bath,” Mr. Tharp said to John Merriwether, as Mandy poured out tea. “Young Prescott also.” He shrugged. “Bees around the honeypot.”

  “I had a letter from Holcombe today, ” John said in a swift change of topic. He’s coming to Bath on Saturday to give a full report on the Caen Hill locks.”

  “No more fatalities, I trust?”

  “No, thank God, though I could wish we did not have to use the Frenchies. Holcombe complains their officers give themselves airs.”

  “Better the French than another five years.”

  Glumly, John nodded. “Still, Holcombe estimates another two years at best.”

  “We’ll finish the tunnel before that.”

  “Indeed.” John helped himself to a macaroon as Alan Tharp turned his attention to Mandy.

  “Miss Merriwether, you are looking quite grand.”

  “Thank you,” she returned with a twinkle of humor. “It is quite amazing what a good modiste and a talented coiffeur can do to transform a hoyden into a Bath Miss.”

  “Bath Miss?” Tharp set his tea cup down with a sharp clash of porcelain against porcelain. “You’re bamming me. Anyone less like a shy, mincing Bath Miss would be hard to find.”

  Mandy fluttered her lashes. “But I am making such an effort to be conformable, Mr. Tharp. You must grant at least the possibility that the improvement is more than ski
n deep.”

  “You always had good manners, my girl. Else John would have skinned you long since. But that tongue of yours, the way you sail through the navvies like a frigate with all guns blasting. The times I saw you stand up to Montsale, nose to nose, as if you’d been born a duchess. No, no, my girl, you’ll never be a Bath Miss.”

  “He has the right of it,” John concurred. “No one is going to mistake a young goddess for a Bath Miss.”

  “Papa.” Embarrassed, though pleased, Mandy hung her head.

  “You cannot tell me you wish to be a Bath Miss,” her papa declared.

  “No, indeed, Papa, but Aunt Tynsdale says being unexceptional is the key to blending into society. Surely being a goddess can only inspire enmity.”

  “A hit, a veritable hit,” Mr. Tharp exclaimed.

  Mr. Merriwether heaved a sigh. “You cannot help looking like a goddess, my dear. You are even more startlingly attractive than your mama. But if you do not assume airs above your station, all should be well. Be kind, particularly to those less fortunate than yourself. Smile and smile, even when you feel the urge to box ears. Remain the lady you are, though it appears the sky is falling in. And all will be well, I promise you.”

  Mandy offered her father a slightly watery smile. “Of course, Papa. I will make every effort to do exactly as you advise.” But not even comportment worthy of the Princess Charlotte would bring her the prize she longed for. As Mandy nibbled a tiny tea cake, frosted in pink, nasty epithets she’d heard applied to less-than-noble aspirants to Bath society whispered through her mind.

  Can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

  Mutton dressed as lamb.

  Ah, no. Surely no one would be so cruel. She was not some merchant’s daughter from the Midlands with aspirations to gentility. There were nobles on her family tree; her education, provided by dear Papa, was well above that given to daughters of peers of the realm. So when the habitués of the Pump Room returned, she would follow Papa’s advice to the letter. She would smile, be kind and gracious.

  Humble, however, might require some adjustment by the Lady of the Lock.

  A mischievous smile flitted across Mandy’s face. If she thought of herself as a gracious lady bountiful and pictured the nobles surrounding her as navvies, to whom she was obligated to dispense noblesse oblige . . .

  “And what do you find so humorous, my dear?” John Merriwether asked.

  Green eyes sparkling with the absurdity of her vision, Mandy murmured, “Nothing of significance, Papa. I was merely looking forward to the return of the many who are enjoying the holidays elsewhere.”

  “Come Twelfth Night, and Bath will be itself again,” Mr Tharp assured her. “And then you may dazzle them all.”

  Mandy thanked him prettily for the compliment, even as she thought, No, not all.

  Mr. Tharp was proved correct. By two days after Twelfth Night, the Pump Room burst into life, teeming with a colorful array of the young, as well as the middle-aged and elderly. Bath society’s ranks were suddenly swollen by families like the Oglethorpes, bringing hopeful young misses for a final polishing before the London Season, by young men escorting elderly relatives back to their homes, and by new residents—widows, widowers, half-pay officers, and others of modest means—making new lives for themselves in the quiet, solid comfort of Bath.

  Mandy, conservatively dressed in a morning gown of blue woolen, piped in a darker shade of blue, eagerly scanned the room for familiar faces. Although the tall arched windows provided good light, the sudden transformation from sparsity to an overabundance of riches turned the room into nothing more than a jumbled sea of faces.

  “Mr. Merriwether!”

  “Mr. Tharp!”

  Two ladies of middle years descended on them. Each gentleman managed introductions with aplomb before settling into lively conversation with the newcomers, leaving Mandy to stare in astonishment. A trifle miffed, she stepped out on her own, searching for Aunt Tynsdale. As she passed the crowd around the great stone fountain, bubbling with the warm and sulphurous water for which Bath was noted, she saw no one she recognized, although she easily identified the sonata the orchestra was playing as a piece by Hayden. She paused before the rounded alcove which housed the orchestra and allowed the stately measures of music to wash over her, steadying her nerves.

  How unlike her to turn into a blancmange just because Papa and Mr. Tharp had defected . . . and Aunt Tynsdale was nowhere to be found.

  Papa and Mr. Tharp besieged by females. Incredible! Not that she had not known them to converse with women in the Pump Room in years past, but to be accosted the moment they walked in the door . . .

  Keeping one shoulder to the orchestra, Mandy once again allowed her gaze to roam the room. Surely the Oglethorpes had returned by now. Oh! She stifled a gasp as she recognized the grande dame of Bath’s residents, the Dowager Duchess of Carewe. Montsale’s grandmother. And with her a cluster of persons, including a tall, young gentleman— Mandy’s stomach somersaulted, she couldn’t breathe. Montsale here? Impossible, quite impossible. She would have wagered her very best bonnet that Carewe would never allow him anywhere near Bath, for surely the duke, one of Papa’s employers, was aware the Merriwethers were in Bath for the winter.

  “My apologies, child,” her papa announced as he joined her. “I had not seen Mrs. Honeycutt since we were in Bath for the opening of the Dundas aqueduct, and we had a good many words to exchange.”

  Mandy cast a demure nod toward the duchess’s party. “Is that not the Duke of Carewe’s mama?” she asked. “Would it be proper to pay our respects?”

  “Indeed.” John Merriwether offered his arm. “It would not do to ignore the mama of a man who has provided such a grand portion of the funds for the K&A.”

  “Much of it for his ridiculous tunnel,” Mandy whispered quite naughtily as they made their way across the room.

  “Your Grace,” Mr. Merriwether said when the dowager deigned to give him her attention. The Dowager Duchess of Carewe was an imposing woman, whose unusual height was apparent even while seated in a gilded armchair. Her hair was black as midnight, revealing not so much as a wisp of gray. Dyed or a wig? Mandy could not be sure, but she recognized the source of Montsale’s flashing flint eyes, alive with an intelligence the years had not dimmed.

  John Merriwether, a man of polished manners, even those of the previous century, kissed the hand the duchess offered. “Your Grace, I believe you may remember my daughter, Amanda, although she has been transformed from an unfledged girl to a young lady since you last saw her.”

  “Indeed she has,” rumbled a voice that was not quite Montsale’s. Startled, Mandy looked up into the face of a perfect stranger. A young man near her own age, his looks so close to Montsale’s he took her breath away.

  “My younger grandson, Lord Jeremy,” the duchess said. “He has kindly escorted us to Bath, though he has yet to learn to keep his tongue between his teeth.” The dowager turned to the other two ladies in her party, who were standing next to Lord Jeremy. Both women, Mandy thought, were pattern-cards of ton perfection, garbed in the latest pseudo-Greek columnar gowns introduced by Josephine Bonaparte and slavishly adopted by British females despite centuries of wars with France. Both ladies exuded bon ton from every pore. From silk gowns that likely would see them catch their deaths from cold to unobtrusive but shockingly expensive brooches and earbobs, and bonnets so stylish half the ladies in the Pump Room would be descending on their milliners that very afternoon.

  “Ladies,” said the duchess, “may I present Miss Merriwether and Mr. Merriwether? Mr. Merriwether is the remarkable gentleman who is in charge of building the Kennet and Avon canal.” With a regal nod toward the two ladies, she added, “My guests, Lady Pontesbury and her daughter, Lady Christabel.”

  Mandy doubted the two grand ladies would have looked more shocked if they had been presented to a fortune teller at a country fair. As they mouthed the necessary words of acknowledgment, the duchess added, “Lady Pontesbury
and Lady Christabel have been enjoying the holidays with the family at Carewe Castle and have graciously agreed to join me in Bath for a fortnight or two.”

  Unable to completely contain the question that popped into her head, Mandy cast a wide-eyed look at Lord Jeremy, whose face promptly turned scarlet. “Not I,” he choked out. M’brother, Montsale.”

  Mandy’s papa gripped her arm, squeezing hard. He said all the polite nothings the situation demanded, then backed away, carrying Mandy with him. At that precise moment the orchestra concluded a piece by Bach and somehow the chatter in the Pump Room faded into silence. Quite clearly, all but the stone-deaf heard Lady Pontesbury’s spiteful voice declare, “Haymarket ware! Scarce a wonder the gel scrambled Montsale’s wits.”

  Chapter Six

  “Insufferable!” Lady Tynsdale exclaimed when she heard the tale. “I have warned you, Amanda, that some high sticklers might think you smelled of the shop—”

  “Or mud,” Mandy interjected with a decided gleam in her eye.

  “Pay attention, child! How Malvinia Pontesbury can give herself airs when her husband’s a mere viscount and her father a wool merchant, I’m sure I cannot say. But one must grant her credit for pushing her way into a Challenor Christmas party. A presage of wedding bells, perhaps. Lady Christabel Mainwaring’s a beauty, though it pains me sorely to say so.”

  Mandy blanched. Not I. My brother Montsale.

  “And I advise you to stay away from Lady Pontesbury’s equally sharp-tongued friend, Lady Silverdale, who is also sending off a daughter. Olympia, I believe.” The baroness considered, nodded. “Yes, Olympia. Both gels mirror images of their mothers. Vipers all.”

  Mandy swallowed hard but dared not say a word, lest she reveal how deeply the dowager’s talk of marriage had hurt.

  “Indeed,” Lady Tynsdale added after a disdainful sniff, “it would seem those with skeletons in their closets are the first to cast stones. It was the scandal of my second season. Pontesbury—the old lord, not the present one—was completely rolled up, bailiffs at the door. His heir was forced to go skulking off to the Midlands, where he married the only child of a merchant turned mill-owner.”