by Joan Smith
“I’m not much of a hand at dancing,” he replied, yet he resented the suggestion that he was past it. It had been a long time since he had gone dancing with anyone but Deborah. She approved of assemblies for what she called the youngsters, but her own participation in them, and Southam’s, was usually limited to opening the dance, then removing to the card parlor.
“Hand? Surely ‘foot’ is more to the point.” She laughed. He remembered that laugh—light, silvery. What an attractive lady she was, for her age. “Why do you not come with Mrs. Carrington and myself? Give your little sister a chance to show you how popular she is here in Bath. Tannie does not usually attend these dos, but because of this dinner party, he is coming this evening. It will be an opportunity to know him better. He improves on longer acquaintance. One learns to duck and dodge his unintentional assaults.”
“I should like to know him better.” Glancing along the table, he was gratified to see that Gillie was as pretty and lively as any of the other young debs—and as popular. Mrs. Searle had done a remarkable job of trimming her into line. “Yes, I’ll join you.”
Quizzing glasses were raised around the room when Mrs. Searle and Lord Southam led the party of youngsters into the assembly. “You are causing quite a stir, sir,” Beatrice informed him. “This being Bath, within sixty seconds the quizzes will have figured out that you are Gillie’s brother.”
Unaccustomed to so much attention, Southam was uncomfortable with it. He noticed, though, that Mrs. Searle was in her element. She sailed through the room like a frigate in full rig, nodding and smiling to her friends, and with her fingers laid proprietarily on his arm. He was aware of jealous glances from the men and felt a little spurt of pride in his companion’s beauty.
Southam anticipated a dance with Mrs. Searle and perhaps one with his hostess for civility’s sake. He realized, after the party was ensconced at tables in the Upper Rooms, that the older folks in Bath did not take a backseat to the youngsters. Mrs. Searle was whisked away from the table as soon as they arrived.
Mrs. Carrington inclined her head toward him and said, “That is Mr. Reynolds, one of Mrs. Searle’s court. He has retired from London—something to do with the law—and bought a handsome estate north of Bath. Extremely eligible.”
He looked surprised to learn that Mrs. Searle had her circle of admirers. “At her age!” he exclaimed, not well pleased.
“Why, she is only thirty, and so very pretty. Naturally she will not molder into the grave without making another match. Though I have often thought Sir Harold Whitehead has the inner track. A baronet, but not so deep in the pockets as Reynolds. There is no saying with Bea. She never had any hankering for a handle to her name. She has turned down dozens of offers. She is quite a dasher, I promise you.”
As he watched from the sidelines, Mrs. Searle negotiated the steps of the country dance with every evidence of youthful vigor. Neither her small, lithe waist nor her lively performance revealed the least sign of advancing senility. Had he not been familiar with her background, he would have taken her for Gillie’s friend, not her chaperon. This had been an excellent notion of Deborah’s, to send Gillie here. What the girl required was a good-natured lady who enjoyed youthful outings herself. Gillie’s social life had been sorely restricted in Alderton.
He prepared himself to replace Mr. Reynolds at the end of the set, but before Mrs. Searle reached the table, she had been accosted by another gentleman. Fellow looked like a demmed caper merchant, with his oiled hair and greasy smile.
Mrs. Carrington leaned forward and said, “That is Sir Harold Whitehead that I told you about. He is put out that Bea stood up first with Mr. Reynolds this evening. And only see how Miss Tobin is scowling! She wouldn’t say no if Sir Harold asked her to dance—or to marry him, either.”
The place was a regular hotbed of romance. It struck Southam as unseemly for his cousin’s widow to be so popular and gay. Why, she was flirting with Whitehead! Upon my word, he thought, I am not at all sure this lady is any better than she should be.
His anger subsided when she returned to the table at the end of the set and said, “Why are you not dancing, Lord Southam? Can you not see all the ladies languishing for want of a partner? We do not often have the honor of an earl at our little assemblies. I hope you are not too high and mighty to stand up with me?”
“I have already warned you I am not much of a hand at jigging, but if you are willing to take the chance, I will be more than happy to oblige you.”
She gave him her hand with a teasing smile and replied, “I never hesitate to take a chance, Lord Southam. You do not look that dangerous to me.”
“Deborah tells me I have two left feet.”
“Only two? Tannie has four, and I have waltzed with him when one of the girls for the waltzing class failed to attend.”
“I can only offer you two, but I assure you they are both left feet.”
“That attitude is enough to insure failure. I expect you are an excellent dancer.” She smiled and led him to the dance floor, where he acquitted himself without disgrace. Strangely he seemed to dance better than usual. Perhaps it was because Mrs. Searle was such a good dancer herself.
“I was a little surprised to see the youngsters waltzing this afternoon,” he mentioned when the steps of the cotillion permitted them to converse.
She gave him an arch look. “Your surprise was more than evident, Lord Southam. You looked as if you had stumbled into a house of ill repute, only because I was wearing an evening gown.”
“My understanding was that Bath was very strict, even more so than the provinces. I had not thought learning the waltz would be a priority.”
“Why, waltzing is allowed at Almack’s, the strictest club in all of England! We must not be overly rigid.”
“It was not the way in my day.”
“Nor in mine, either, but things change, and we must change with them or become hopelessly outdated. The old-timers are forever telling me that morality has gone to hell in a hand basket, but for myself, I enjoy the greater freedom that prevails now. Especially to a widow. I will admit, however, that in Bath the waltz is only done in private homes. You will not see any waltzing here at the Assembly Rooms.”
“Pity.”
“I joined Gillie up for the dancing class in hopes that you would give her a Season, Lord Southam,” she said, and looked for his reaction.
“As you know, that was not my intention. Now that she has nabbed Cleremont without aid of a Season ...”
They parted, and when the dance permitted, she continued the conversation. “She has not nabbed him. She has caught his interest, but he will be going to London in May.”
“That gives her a few weeks.”
“Unfortunately, it does not. The duke is leaving soon for Newmarket. He has some nags entered in the races and will be going before then to work with his trainer. At this time of year he is darting hither and thither to small meets as well.” Again the demands of the dance took them apart. Southam found this method of conversing difficult, but Mrs. Searle apparently had no trouble with it. When they met again, she continued her persuasions. “He is far from reaching the sticking point. As far as that goes, I am not at all sure Gillie would have him.”
“She’ll have him all right,” he said firmly. Bea just looked at him uncertainly. She disliked that decisive tone. “She mentioned she rides and drives with him daily,” he reminded her.
“Not every day. They are good friends, but Tannie doesn’t realize yet that he is in love with her, you see. As to Gillie, she is in love with his team, which is not precisely the state of affairs that would lead to acceptance if he offered.” She wafted away to the steps of the dance.
When they met again, Southam had his answer ready. “He’s not likely to hand over the team without including himself in the parcel. He ain’t that big a booby.”
Beatrice drew a deep sigh. “Why is it that men, who can run vast estates, cannot understand the simple elements of making a match?”
At the end of the dance the party went to the tearoom, where Bea made sure Southam and the duke were seated at the same table. Southam was at pains to draw the duke out. “I hear you are interested in racing,” he said, smiling.
“My name is up for the Jockey Club.” As this came perilously near to boasting, something the duke abhorred, he added, “Daresay I shan’t be let in for a decade yet.”
“One can only try,” Southam said supportively. “This is an interesting time for you—the five classics.”
“Four in spring. The Saint Leger is run in September.” The duke wanted to make a favorable impression on Gillie’s brother. This, unfortunately, required conversation of more than two or three syllables. Racing was the only area in which he felt competent to discourse rationally, so he rattled on. “One and three-quarters miles.”
“I thought it was one and a half,” Southam said.
“Derby’s one and a half. Oaks is one and a half. Ascot’s two and a half. All ages and sexes. Gold Cup.”
“Just so. Well, I daresay you are looking forward to the Season.”
“I have a sweet filly running in the Oaks. My Firefly took it last year. Three-year-old. Well, has to be, what? Running her sister, Flame, this year.”
“I meant the social Season, in London.”
“Oh, that Season. Mmm.” No comment occurred to the duke on that Season. “Are you going to Bournemouth?” he asked.
Southam frowned in perplexity. “Bournemouth?”
“Hurdle races start this week.”
“No, I shan’t be attending those.”
The duke gave Gillie a commiserating look and turned to speak to her. Southam ran out of ideas, and the conversation lapsed, to the mixed relief and regret of both participants.
Nothing of great interest occurred over the remainder of the evening. At eleven sharp the music stopped, and the guests left. Southam accompanied the ladies to Saint Andrew’s Terrace. He accepted Mrs. Searle’s invitation to join her for a glass of wine, apologizing for the lateness of the hour.
“It is only eleven-thirty!” she said, laughing. “Your carriage does not turn into a pumpkin at midnight, I hope. Good gracious, in London the parties go on till three or four in the morning. Here in Bath we frequently go out for a late supper after an assembly. Of course, when we are chaperoning the young debs, we must curtail our activities.”
“I hope having Gillie is not too great a restraint on your amusements.”
“Not at all. I enjoy her company.” She turned to Gillie. “You had best run up to bed now, dear,” she said.
Gillie came to kiss her good-night. “It was a lovely party, Aunt Bea. Good-night, Rawl.” She stopped before leaving and said to her brother, “I don’t suppose we could go to Bournemouth?”
“Did the duke suggest it?” he asked.
“He asked you if you were going.”
“No, best not. Deborah expects me home Monday.”
Gillie’s face stiffened, and she left without further entreaties.
Southam noticed with chagrin that his sister showed more warmth for this new friend than for himself. “Why does she call you Aunt Bea?” he asked, to conceal his annoyance.
“Because we wanted some friendlier term than Mrs. Searle, after we had become bosom bows. I could not permit her to use my first name without some handle. Such familiar terms between a chaperon and her charge might lead to trouble.”
“You are cousins. She might have called you Cousin.”
Bea shrugged. “We are connections, Lord Southam. I am neither her cousin nor her aunt.”
“Nor mine, either, but I hope, now that we are friendlier, that you will permit me to call you Beatrice.”
“You are old enough to rob it of impropriety,” she answered saucily.
“I notice that here in Bath age is no deterrent to merry-making.”
“No, indeed. I greatly enjoy my maturity. In fact, I am happy to be rid of the burden of youth. Older ladies, especially if they are widows, are not so encumbered with rules as are debs. So long as one heeds the usual proprieties, a widow may do pretty well as she pleases.”
“Now that Gillie has left, let me ask you frankly, is she a nuisance for you? Does she tie you down more than you like?”
“Not at all. It is an interesting change, to hobnob with the younger set. Having missed out on motherhood, I am enjoying the privileges without the total responsibility.”
“It is truly remarkable how well she has taken to you.”
“I hope I am not that hard to get along with!” she exclaimed.
“That was not my meaning. It was meant as a compliment. She is a difficult girl to handle.”
“Not really. It boils down to understanding her. She cares more for horses than most girls her age. If one hopes to engage her in social doings, one must wedge them in sideways, under the guise of horsey doings, or with an outing involving horses in the offing. When she catches some other lady throwing her hankie at the duke, she will realize he is a man and she is a woman. Then she will go after him hammer and tong, even if he does not wear a bridle.”
“I fear the idea has not occurred to her yet. A pity he will be leaving so soon.”
“A pity Gillie cannot have a Season,” she replied, watching him from the corner of her eye. She hoped to win him over by repetition.
“I’ll speak to Deborah about it,” he said, thinking aloud.
Bea felt a stab of anger but bit back the hot retort that rose to her lips. “I expect you can let me know soon, as you will be returning to Elmland on Monday. That is when Deborah is expecting you back, is it not?” He nodded. “There are many details that must be attended to if Gillie is allowed to go. Her name must be entered at Saint James’s. I would have to be in touch with Mrs. Louden to arrange her ball and be in touch with other chaperons.”
“Have you spoken of all this to Gillie? She will feel sorely done by if she is not allowed to go.”
“I am not a complete widgeon! Of course I haven’t,” she snapped. “But you will speak to Deborah as soon as you return, I hope. Even she might approve, when the prize is a duke.”
Southam noticed her piqued tone. “Why do you say even she, as if Deborah were unreasonable? She is greatly interested in seeing Gillie settled.”
“Then I expect she may give her permission, if you approach her nicely.”
There was some mischief lurking in those green eyes. “Give her permission”—was that it? She was saying Deborah had the ring through his nose? “It is not a question of permission. The decision is mine. I am Gillian’s brother and guardian. Naturally my fiancée is involved in such decisions, however. She knows more about such things than I, from having lived so long in London.”
“Of course. Yet I cannot think she learned much about making matches at the palace. The royal princesses are all wilting on the vine, except Princess Elizabeth, and she was nearing fifty before she nabbed her beau.”
“You forget Deborah had a Season herself, Cousin.”
“She did not make a match, though.” She smiled saucily.
“It was not for lack of offers!” he defended swiftly. “She has a poor opinion of the beaux met there. Fops and Corinthians. She prefers provincial gentlemen, for their steadiness of character.”
“Like Stuyvesant?” Bea asked ironically. “Or do you mean like yourself, Southam? Certainly one cannot accuse you of foppishness. No, there is no need to lower your brow at me. That was not a slur on your toilet!”
His blackening mood lifted as he watched her green eyes twinkle with amusement. “One cannot accuse the duke of overdressing, either,” he said, smiling. “Lord, did you ever see such a disheveled boy in your life? He looks as if he’d been rolling around a cow byre.”
“No, a stable! Gillie wasn’t much better when she arrived here. If we do bring off this match, we must find them a valet and dresser to turn them out in style.”
“It would be an excellent thing for her,” Southam said, warming to the idea. “Gillie a duchess, imagine! Most gents are put off by her stable ways, but the duke would feel right at home. It seems to me they are made for each other.”
Bea gave him a conning look. “You know how to bring the match off, Southam. Send her to London. As you said, the decision is yours.”
He did not reply to this taunt, but said, “I wish he were not going to Bournemouth so soon.”
“If wishes were horses ...”
“Then the duke would love them,” he finished, laughing. “I have overstayed my welcome. You must forgive me.”
She shrugged. “Not at all. My guests often stay much later than this, but you have had a fagging day. Will you call tomorrow to see Gillie?”
He nodded. “Is eleven too early?”
“Gillie will be riding with the duke, but I shall be here if you want to call. I’ll take you on the strut on Milsom Street and make all my beaux jealous. Or we could stay here and have a private coze,” she added. This would give her another opportunity to try to tease him into accepting the London idea. A smile moved her lips as she saw Southam try to figure out her aim.
Southam decided there was some enchantment in her smile. It suggested all manner of delightful things, not all of them having to do with Gillie. Deborah would not approve of his spending a morning alone with this enchantress. “I’ll see you at eleven, then,” he said, and rose to take his leave.
As the carriage jogged through the streets to the White Hart, Southam reviewed the evening. His thoughts soon settled on Mrs. Searle. He knew in his bones that she had changed from her school days with Deborah, or his fiancée would not have suggested her as Gillie’s chaperon. She was too dashing, too free in her manners, too flirtatious.
It would be Leonard who had worked the change, of course. Reckless, handsome Leonard. He must have seen the potential in Beatrice, or he never would have married her. No denying he was a highflyer. Just how high, he wondered, did the widow soar? She mentioned more than once how she enjoyed her freedom.
