Lizzy and Miss Hayter drifted away into a quiet corner for earnest conversation, while Mrs Bennet and the others threw themselves into the midst of Bath society.
I was left to myself, an abandoned general waiting for news from the front. Would it be defeat or glory?
“Tea or coffee?”
The ghost from the past returned, plunging me into the same maelstrom of emotion that had trapped my tongue back in Brecknell’s and Tavistock’s.
“If I recall correctly, James, you are a tea man, with only a little milk and one of those small, round biscuits Cottersham’s used to sell. Though no longer, I fear. Various continental inventions are all the rage in Bath now. It becomes harder to indulge in past loves.”
I could not remember how she took her tea. Only how she looked when doing so.
“Your daughter is a blessing. She has enraptured Anne. They have much in common: an interest in books, a keen eye for observation. They also share an alarming impatience with arrogance or stupidity. They will see plenty of that here.” She drew an imaginary circle around the room with a twist of her finger. “Your wife must be an excellent woman to have brought up such a daughter.” She paused, but I was still struggling to find the right words, or any words in her company. “You have grown silent with age.”
“My apologies, Mrs Hayter…Abigail…it has been a long day.” She arched an eyebrow.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mrs Bennet approaching with two glasses of water. Her look suggested she was burdened with vital gossip to impart and, with Mrs Philips back in Meryton, it would fall to me to receive it.
“Lady Reynolds!” Abigail swept off. I did not know who the good Lady Reynolds was, but offered up a silent prayer to thank the Lord for having sent her.
After a few minutes of trivial conversation with my wife, I stepped outside to see if John had arrived. He was waiting, eyes a little puffed, a few stray strands of hair dancing across his forehead in the wind.
“You know, John, you will find it easier to encourage a lady’s interest if you are at least in the same room as her.”
“I thought I would wait, see what more you might discover.”
“That sounds exciting,” said Lizzy, surprising us. “Have I discovered some plot?”
“Lizzy. And Miss Hayter,” I said. “How…delightful. John and I were about to take a walk…up past the theatre.”
“We are going that way ourselves, since Miss Hayter wishes to show me some of her favourite shops, at least from the outside. There is no need for the rest to accompany us, then, if you will do so instead?” I nodded. “I shall tell them at once. They will not be unhappy to stay longer in the Pump Room.” And off Lizzy went, leaving John, Miss Hayter, and myself to stand in a silence as stony as the colonnade we found shelter under.
Just as I was beginning to feel a prickle of discomfort climb my back, Miss Hayter spoke. “It is refreshing to be out of the wind, is it not?” My relief was great. John could not possibly give offence on such a topic.
“Yes,” he said. “Although I find a gale often reminds me that I am alive.”
Miss Hayter placed her hands on her hips. “Do you often forget that you are alive, Mr Barton?” My prickle returned.
“Not often, no.” John’s right leg began to shake slightly. “Do you?”
“I am fortunate enough to have a daily reminder when I wake.”
“I think, perhaps, what I meant was that a good wind can bring us out of a reverie or black spirits, especially if it is also raining.”
“The people of Scotland must be a merry folk indeed.” I winced at her remark and ran a nervous finger around the inside of my cravat.
“May I ask, Miss Hayter, what makes you smile?” said John.
“Intelligent conversation, Mr Barton.”
He swallowed hard. “Then you must have little cause to smile at all, especially around men.”
“You are very harsh on your sex, Mr Barton. Once again.” She folded her arms.
“In our eagerness to impress, we fall easily into flattery and foolishness. That is all.”
“How would you then advise your fellow man to give intelligence to their flattery?”
“They might quote the poets. Perhaps Wordsworth?” In his nervousness, he must have forgotten yesterday’s conversation.
“If you quote Wordsworth to me, how am I to know whether you are truly intelligent or merely a good reader?”
“The two commonly go together,” said John.
“Besides,” said Miss Hayter, “poetry cannot substitute for one’s own thoughts. Especially Wordsworth, who I cannot abide.”
“But if those thoughts are foolish, then is it not better to use those of others? Of poets or other masters of language.”
“Miss Hayter, Mr Barton, I beg of you both.” I might as well have stayed silent.
“Since you quote no poetry yourself, Mr Barton, am I to understand you have no wish to flatter me?”
“All men wish to impress, but not all wish to flatter. I have enough intelligence to know that flattery would not impress you.”
“Miss Hayter, you must come.” Lizzy saved us all from further conversational toil. “I have found an old acquaintance and promised to introduce you. She must leave in an instant. Papa and John must wait for us a little longer.”
After they went back inside, my young friend turned to me. “I am not myself when I am around her.”
“I had not noticed. Come, John, it was not all that bad.” I returned his questioning stare. “Perhaps you should try less conversation.” A thought sprang from my memory of post-assembly discussions. “Or you might try a compliment. Only a small one, mind.”
The two ladies soon returned, hurrying to reach the safety of the colonnade’s arch as the grey skies darkened and growled above.
“It is beginning to rain,” said Miss Hayter. “How pleased you must be, Mr Barton.” I had to hide my smile.
“My thoughts on the wind and the rain may have come out badly,” said John. “I become a little confused in the presence of beauty.” Miss Hayter’s eyebrows formed little arches of their own.
A return to the dance floor
The next day I claimed for myself.
Mrs Bennet and the girls visited the shops with Miss Hayter, eager to find the fashions that little Meryton could not provide. Since they were just as eager to see those same fashions worn by the rich and titled, or by those who aspired to join them, they planned another visit to the Pump Room.
That was the very last place I wanted to visit, in case she was there. Though a part of me yearned for the chance to see Abigail again, a larger part dreaded the feelings such a meeting would bring.
Instead, I treated myself to one slow walk up and along to the Crescent, where memories became real before me. The feel of the cobbles through my boots. The cries of the waggon drivers as they made their way out of Corsham’s, loaded with wine and ale for the inns. All that was missing was the smell of fresh loaves outside Lancaster’s, but it seemed Lancaster had moved on. Rolls of fabric now lay where once there were rolls of bread.
Later, despite my intentions, I found myself in a teashop with John, Lizzy, and Miss Hayter, who had somehow met each other—and me—in town. Perhaps John had followed my practice of lurking on street corners in the hope of a serendipitous meeting. I braced myself for the next conversational faux pas my friend would come up with. Perhaps a contrary comment about cats? Something dismissive about the colour blue?
I had become a little tired of tea. Ever since we had been in Bath, we seemed to follow an eleventh commandment curiously ignored in the Bible. Thou shalt honour the tea bush and drink of no other beverage.
Lizzy, perhaps sensing John’s insecurity, did much of the talking. She had clearly found a kindred spirit in Miss Hayter, who was her equal in wit and intelligence, if more scarred by her experience of society. They dealt with passing men with deft slices of conversation. It felt like John and I were condemned prisoners, forced to
watch the brutal execution of our fellow gentlemen. It was hard to feel sympathy, though, since most of them stalked Miss Hayter without finesse or charm, as if hunting rabbits. Eventually, though, the shooting parties found a better manor to bless with their buffoonery and we were able to enjoy crumpets and tea without disturbance.
“You talk very little of your travels, Mr Barton. Most men I know are only too keen to boast of their experiences abroad and the strange ways of all who are not English,” said Miss Hayter.
“Yes, John,” added Lizzy, “Do amuse us with tales of bizarre dinner rituals and the worst excesses of the Viennese aristocracy.”
“I fear I can only disappoint,” said John. “I lived abroad so long that the bizarre has become normal. Now it is English rituals and behaviour that appear amusing.”
“Is that so?” said Miss Hayter. I prayed John would not seek to expand on his previous comment.
“Take the waltz,” he said. “In Vienna, it is just a dance, an amusement. Here it is talked about as a threat to the purity and innocence of our womenfolk. We imply too much in a touch on the dance floor.”
“But our beliefs beget rules, and rules give us certainty, do they not?” said Miss Hayter.
“Some certainty,” said John. “But so much is still implied. So much depends on correct interpretation. Is a touch an accident or a promise? It would be better if we could speak plainly.”
“Better, perhaps, but much less diverting,” said Lizzy. “What would we ladies have to talk about after a ball if not a thousand different explanations for a look, a word or…a touch?”
“I would not wish to deny you that pleasure,” said John, smiling.
“And how are we to interpret your words, Mr Barton?” said Miss Hayter.
John spread his palms in front of him. “I am not skilled with words. Perhaps that is why I enjoy painting. It allows me to express myself more clearly.”
“Perhaps you might simply speak plainly.”
“I think it is my plain speech that is the problem. People are not used to it, so look for nuances that are not there.”
“So when you spoke of me shining…?”
“You shone.”
They held each other’s gaze, faces expressionless, each waiting for the other to blink. I could not say what was going through their minds.
Just as I was preparing a righteous cough to end the standoff, a small disturbance at the door attracted our attention. A rather portly young gentleman was easing his way through the tearoom carrying a small book. The scraping of chairs, little exclamations of surprise and a multitude of apologies marked his passage.
“Mr Jameson,” whispered Miss Hayter. “He is very amiable but a little clumsy and a lot shy. Our mothers are great friends so he will feel the need to greet us, though he may be terrified of doing so.”
“Is he…?” said Lizzy.
“Single? Yes and no. He adores a Miss Whitworth, a distant cousin of mine. He would make her a wonderful husband. His shyness hides a kindness few men possess. Unfortunately, it is this very shyness that prevents him from expressing his admiration. I do not think he knows where to start. It is perhaps time that someone intervened.”
During introductions, Mr Jameson mopped his brow with a handkerchief, casting occasional looks behind him.
“Can I offer you a crumpet?” said John. “We are quite full and it would be a shame to waste the hard work of the baker. We have tea, too.” He pulled out a chair, near the window and away from other tables.
I expected Miss Hayter to find a clever excuse to withdraw the invitation. Instead, she confirmed it. “Yes, Mr Jameson, do come and sit with us. I have not seen you for so long. What is it you are reading?”
Mr Jameson mumbled his thanks. One hand held up the book so we could see the title, the other fiddled with his jacket buttons.
“Wordsworth, how delightful!” said Miss Hayter. I looked straight at her, surprised at her praising the very poet she had derided so strongly the day before, shocked when she began to quote verse.
A Violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
“All good men should read Wordsworth,” she said. “So they may make our lives more pleasant with his flattering lines. I think you will enjoy the book. Only the other day, I was saying to my cousin Miss Whitworth—”
“You know Miss Whitworth?” said Jameson.
“Yes, we are related. She delights in poetry, but only when read out loud. I believe she would fall in love with the first man to recite Wordsworth to her.” She winked at Lizzy and took a bite of crumpet.
“I did not reckon you a follower of Wordsworth,” said John, voicing my feelings.
“There is a time and a place for Wordsworth, Mr Barton. Do you enjoy his work?”
“Very much. I find quoting his poetry helps ensure intelligent conversation.”
~ ~ ~
“My experience of such matters is somewhat limited of late, but it seems unlikely you can dance with Miss Hayter without first talking to her, John. And if I am any judge of Bath society, if you do not talk to her soon, her card will be full and you will have to spend the evening dancing with my daughters.”
“You make the prospect sound like a penance,” said John.
“You have not seen Mary in a quadrille. Now, see if you can dance with her twice. Apparently, that is all it takes; my wife is adamant on that point. Though, on reflection, it turns out she may have been misled.”
To the delight of all but myself, we found ourselves at a dance in the evening. Compared to the Netherfield ball, the rooms had less decoration, but the people more. In a city full of colourful birds, nobody could afford to wear drab plumage.
I had spent the first minutes musing on all the places I would rather be, but the list was too long. Besides, as a follower on the battlefield of romance, I had little choice if I was to offer John support.
At that moment, Lizzy and Miss Hayter appeared at our table. “Papa, I have seen you happier at one of Mr Toke’s sermons. Will you not dance?”
“Lizzy, you know me well enough to discern the answer. Besides, I cannot imagine either of you short of partners. Or is there still space on your card for one more?” I gave John a little glance.
“I have an empty space for the next dance, Mr Bennet, and would be delighted to fill the gap with your name,” said Miss Hayter. She gave me a smile that all fathers knew. The kind that ensured a new ribbon, or merely mild censure for even the most heinous of improprieties.
“I fear my old legs are past dancing. But…” I turned to John. “I am sure Mr Barton would happily take my place. Can I prevail on you, John, if Miss Hayter is willing?” For a moment, he looked like a young fawn surprised on a woodland walk, all trembling nerves and uncertainty. But he recovered well.
“If Miss Hayter would honour me with a dance, I would be…most honoured.”
She held his look in silence for long enough to induce a familiar feeling on the back of my neck. “It would be…” She paused, seemingly searching for the right expression. “Illuminating.”
John and I must have looked uncomprehending. “That is a yes, John,” said Lizzy.
As soon as they were gone, John fled in the direction of the punch bowl for a sip of courage before the dance started. On the far side of the room, Kitty and Lydia had tracked down and captured the only officers in sight, while Mrs Bennet was engaged in trading gossip with a lady she had met earlier at the Pump Room. It was a moment of quiet isolation among the hum of conversation, disturbed only by the occasional raucous titter or the discordant tones of a musician tuning his instrument.
“The James Bennet I knew never rested, not while there were pretty girls to dance with and good wine to drink. Has time aged you, James, or has my daughter’s company tired you so?”
She was magnificent in a yellow silk gown, a pattern of roses drawing the gaze up to her face…and those ey
es. Pretty as a field of daffodils. I was close to quoting Wordsworth, a sure sign of trouble.
“Will you save me, James? Nobody will dance with an old widow. Except perhaps an old friend?”
My mouth responded before my brain. “I would be delighted.” I had never regretted four words more comprehensively, unless you count “Will you marry me?”
I was sure I would have all the grace of a drunk bluebottle. Worse, there would be a torrent of teasing and a host of questions from the girls after. All for a few minutes dancing with Abigail. A part of me knew it was worth it.
I offered her my arm and together we moved out on to the dance floor.
“I am surprised to see you here. I was told the Hayters kept away from the Pump Room and assemblies. Was the gossip wrong?”
“Not entirely. But Anne has enjoyed showing Miss Bennet around Bath, and I have found my own reason to enter society more often.” Her hand seemed to grow heavier.
Hearing the music begin, I was back in Bath as it once was. A young man, charming, and mischievous. “I do not see an old widow, Abigail. I see—” I caught myself in time.
She laughed. “For a moment, you were almost the James Bennet of old. You must be careful.”
We lined up, her daughter and John on one side, Lizzy and a gentleman I did not know on the other. Regrettably, that meant too many conversations for one man to follow, though I was interested in all three.
“How are you enjoying Bath, Mr Barton? Have you found anything in need of painting?” said Miss Hayter.
“There are some shop fronts on Milsom Street that…oh you mean…well, yes,” said John.
“You are distracted, James. Do my charms no longer have the hold they once did?”
“No. I mean, yes. Or no.” I hoped Lizzy was not listening closely.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Hayter. My opinions may sometimes come across as criticism of those who hold different ones. I blame it on Austria. My grasp of German is not strong enough for me to add nuance to my speech. As I have said, I often speak too plainly.”
Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1) Page 16
