by Sandra Heath
She colored. “I must decline, sir, for I have many things to do at home,” she replied.
He got up suddenly and came around the table to stand behind her. “You will soon be here for always. Miss Peach—Polly—for you will be my wife.” He placed his soft pink hands upon her shoulders.
She leaped up from her seat as if scalded. “Don’t presume, my lord!” she cried, moving away.
“It is no presumption, madam, for the match has been agreed upon.”
“Not by me!”
“Nevertheless, it is settled. Your uncle wishes the contract to be signed, and—”
“Then let him marry you, for I vow you and he would make a handsome pair!” she answered acidly.
He flushed. “You will marry me, Polly, for I am set upon it.”
“I gave you no leave to address me so familiarly, sirrah. As for marriage, all you want is my fortune, and I would as soon give it to Old Nick as hand it to you!”
His eyes cooled. “I’m prepared to overlook this little unpleasantness and give you another chance. Maybe after the ball, when you see how agreeable it is to be linked with me and viewed as the future Lady Benjamin Beddem, you’ll see sense.” With that he turned on his heel and walked from the room.
Polly rested her hands on the back of a chair and closed her eyes. Oh, this was unendurable, but she’d brought it on herself by staying in this odious house! She’d known from the outset that it was a mistake, but for Bodkin and Nutmeg’s sakes, she’d allowed her uncle to inveigle her into staying. Now look what had happened. She drew a long breath, trying to think what to do next. Her uncle and Lord Benjamin were going to an exhibition of watercolors this afternoon, which would give her an opportunity to leave for Horditall before they knew anything about it. She would present her uncle with a fait accompli. Yes, that was for the best. She had to forget putting an imaginary tongue out at Dominic, and quit Bath without further ado.
Suddenly she became aware of a fragrance that had nothing to do with breakfast. Cloves! She glanced quickly around. “Bodkin? Is that you?”
It was Ragwort. He’d witnessed her scene with Lord Benjamin, and had now moved quite close to her, wondering if things weren’t quite as he’d concluded after all. Polly sensed where he was and reached out so suddenly that he was obliged to step hastily aside. His tail swished uneasily, for she was only the second human he’d come across who was so sensitive to brownies, Giles being the first.
Polly spoke urgently. “Please listen to me. Bodkin, for I’ve only come here to Bath to help you. I’m your friend, truly I am! My uncle promises me there was no agreement with Lord Benjamin about Nutmeg. They merely wished to offer her a chance to come to Bath to stay while her house at Horditall was refurbished. But they didn’t have a chance to ask her about it, because she walked out. I’m afraid that’s what happened—she really did leave of her own accord. I’m very sorry. Oh, Bodkin, at least make yourself visible to me again, for I do hate talking to thin air.”
Ragwort realized she believed everything she said, but he knew things couldn’t have happened that way, not if the belt buckle found in Dominic’s house did indeed belong to Nutmeg, which he was convinced it did. He wanted to tell Polly that he’d relay her words to Bodkin, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her. Giles was the only human he’d ever conversed with, and then only infrequently, so he held his tongue.
Polly gave up crossly. “Oh, I wash my hands of you, Bodkin. Be a horrid boggart if you must, but you’re in the wrong. I’m going back to Horditall this afternoon, so you can get on with it by yourself!” Catching up her skirts, she swept from the room in a rustle of peppermint-and-white stripes. She wouldn’t stay in the house; instead she’d soothe her anger, injured pride, and offended feelings by doing a little shopping in the fashionable shops of Milsom Street. And tonight she’d sleep in her own bed, listening to the owls in the beech trees at Horditall!
* * * *
Bodkin had slept on a little longer than he intended and stirred as a couple of grooms entered the stable to clean some harnesses. The brownie opened his eyes slowly, and then gave a start, for about a foot away was a large, leering, orange-yellow face, with jagged teeth and staring eyes. Bodkin scrambled away, his tail bolt upright with shock, but almost immediately he felt utterly foolish, for it was his jack-o’-lantern. He breathed out with relief, and rubbed his hands gleefully, for if it had frightened him, just think what it would do to humans on Halloween!
Feeling infinitely better than he had on going to sleep, he made himself comfortable and settled to a breakfast of honey from his jar. Afterward he rubbed some clove balm into his fur, brushed it until it shone, then climbed down the ladder to investigate the bees in the mulberry tree. After that he intended to search Dominic’s house again if he could, because he too was now convinced that the buckle belonged to Nutmeg.
He inhaled deeply of the morning air. How fresh everything smelled after the rain, and how bright and autumnal the leaves were in the sunlight. Oh, how he loved the fall, especially when the sky was so very blue. He’d met Nutmeg on a day like this. His smile faded and a tear rolled down his cheek. Apart from the belt buckle, he was no nearer finding his adored one than he had been on first arriving! Maybe he’d never find her.
He pushed open the door into Dominic’s garden and went inside, where he found Mrs. Matthews’s large marmalade cat strolling down the path toward him. Cats could see brownies, and she arched her back, spat like water in hot fat, and fled back toward the house. Bodkin took no notice as he inspected the tree. The familiar drone of the bees was pleasing to his ears as he scaled the trunk, but as he examined the swarm, his jaw dropped in astonishment, for they were the Horditall bees! “My friends, my dear, dear friends...” he murmured, sinking his hand deep into their seething depths. The bees began to hum, buzzing all over him until he was covered, even to the tip of his tail. He chuckled as he leaned back against the tree trunk. “Oh, how good it is to see you again,” he declared, and as the bees tingled deliciously in his fur, he began to ponder how excellent a weapon they would be for Halloween. Oh, yes, with them and his ferocious jack-o’-lantern he would be the very king of mischief!
Polly had long since set off for the shops of Milsom Street when Bodkin at last tore himself away from his busy little friends. After promising to return soon, he jumped down from the tree and hurried toward the house. The French windows of the dining room were open, and inside he saw Dominic lingering over a leisurely breakfast. The brownie slipped in and took great pleasure in knocking a dish of damson preserve onto Dominic’s spotless white riding breeches, causing him to leap to his feet with a curse worthy of a Billingsgate fishwife.
Bodkin grinned an evil boggart grin as he set off to resume his search for Nutmeg. But although he went over every inch of the house with a fine-tooth comb, he found nothing. Glumly he left again, going out through the front door just as Dominic—clad in fresh breeches— left to ride with Harry Dashingham in Sydney Gardens, it being as much the thing for gentlemen to show off their superb mounts at the Bath Vauxhall, as it was in Hyde Park itself. As Dominic rode off on his mettlesome bay, Bodkin strolled dejectedly across to the common, wondering where to search next. Oh, it seemed an impossible task, for he didn’t know where to begin, and even if he got close. Nutmeg wouldn’t be able to communicate with him because someone had her belt. His tail began to swish as he glanced darkly back at the crescent. Hordwell and Lord Benjamin knew where she was, and so did Dominic and Polly. They would pay, oh, how they would pay! The swish became an angry twirl as he went down the sloping grass to see what was what, which in boggart terms meant what trouble he could cause.
It wasn’t long before the peaceful common was peaceful no more. Two dogs that hated the sight of each other had their leads tied together, some children were robbed of their ball, two young mothers had their hats snatched off, and a temperamental artist, who was painting a delightful view of Bath, suddenly found that a thick black line had appeared across his li
ttle masterpiece. With a cry of anguish, the unfortunate painter shot to his feet, in the process knocking over his easel, paints, brushes, and other paraphernalia.
Bodkin the Boggart couldn’t have cared less as he strolled smugly back to the crescent, tail still atwirl. His need to be naughty pacified for the time being, he was now in the mood for some hot sweet coffee, a sticky bun, and a chat with his new crony, Ragwort. It was during this chat that at long last he learned Polly wasn’t disloyal to him after all, even if the discovery of Nutmeg’s belt buckle suggested she was wrong to trust her uncle. Bodkin was delighted to know he’d wronged her, and his spirits soared, although he was a little ashamed of his recent misbehavior. He eagerly awaited her return from shopping so he could make himself visible to her again.
Chapter 22
Polly’s route to Milsom Street took her past Zuder’s, where the atmosphere of concern and outrage told her Bodkin had paid another overnight visit. He must have seen her note, she thought, yet he hadn’t sought her. It had clearly made no difference at all. He was now quite beyond redemption, she decided, and walked on by, determined to never again bother with brownies.
Milsom Street sloped downhill from George Street toward the abbey and Pump Room, and was lined with shops that were temples of fashion. The pavements were crowded, carriages rattled on the cobbles, and sedan chairs bobbed hither and thither. Street traders called their wares, albeit discreetly, for to bellow the qualities of hot meat pies or the season’s first roast chestnuts would have been most unseemly in such gracious surroundings.
Polly browsed along the shop windows, her mood gradually lightening, but it wasn’t until she came to Miss Pennyfeather’s haberdashery, its doorway draped with stylish English and French tulles, that she espied something she simply had to purchase. The display of fripperies was astounding, but in the midst of it all she espied a small lace day bonnet that was made of exactly the same lace as the collar of one of her gowns. She knew her regret would be eternal if she did not snap it up.
The shop bell tinkled agreeably, and the pleasant smell of leather, cloth, and perfume enveloped her. Miss Pennyfeather’s establishment bulged at the seams with shawls, handkerchiefs, lappets, ribbons, artificial flowers, buttons, buckles, gloves, and parasols; indeed there was said to be a greater choice here than in Piccadilly. A number of other customers were already queuing, because Miss Pennyfeather’s two assistants were ill, and there was only the owner herself to serve. So Polly took up a position at the end of the oak counter and waited patiently for her turn. Her attention was upon the heavily laden shelves and neat little drawers lining the wall behind the counter, so she did not at first recognize anyone else in the shop. It wasn’t until a loud, affected female voice complained about the unendurable wait that Polly glanced along in dismay to see Georgiana and her marquess standing only six feet from her.
Lord Algernon was in his uniform, and Georgiana was superb in a turquoise silk pelisse and matching gown. She wore a wide-brimmed, dark blue hat, around the crown of which a gauze scarf trailed almost to the floor, and the inevitable white curl fell elegantly to her shoulder. A dark blue folded parasol was clasped in her gloved hands, and she resembled one of those serene illustrations from La Belle Assembles, except there was nothing at all serene about her mood. Dominic’s love was clearly more disagreeable than ever this morning, for her lips were turned down pettishly, and she fidgeted with an impatience that was completely out of proportion to the situation. Clearly her overnight hours of stolen passion had not improved her temper, Polly thought, wondering what the unfortunate marquess would have said if he knew of her infidelity. It didn’t occur to Polly that Georgiana might not have been unfaithful; indeed such a possibility was out of the question, for the nighttime visit to Royal Crescent indicated only too glaringly what she’d been up to. Polly drew back toward the door, deciding that not even the lace bonnet was worth the risk of coming face-to-face with Lord Benjamin’s termagant of a sister.
But Georgiana turned and recognized her immediately. “Well, if it isn’t Little Miss Parasol,” she declared acidly.
Everyone else turned as Polly reluctantly responded. “Good morning. Lady Georgiana.”
“It is a relief you have no javelin to hurl at me this time.”
“I did not hurl anything at you. Lady Georgiana. Besides, you would appear to be the one with such a weapon today.”
Miss Pennyfeather became a little flustered, realizing a scene was imminent. She was a plump little woman, with her gray hair in a bun, and spectacles perched on the end of her snub nose. She smoothed her starched apron, and tried to carry on dealing with the lady she had been serving. “Now then, that was two yards of the pink ribbon, wasn’t it?” she said, trying to keep her hand steady as she picked up the scissors.
“No, three yards of the blue,” the lady replied, her attention more on what was happening behind her than upon her intended purchase.
Georgiana tilted her head a little haughtily, her disparaging glance taking in Polly’s peppermint-and-white gown and green velvet spencer. “I did not know that green stripes were in this year,” she murmured, every word clearly audible because of the hush that had descended over the shop.
“And I did not think anyone with such a sallow complexion would wear that particular shade of turquoise,” Polly retorted, never one to back down when provoked.
There were gasps, and Miss Pennyfeather’s hand trembled violently. “Oh, dear,” she muttered, cutting three yards of the pink and realizing her error. She reached for the blue, and promptly cut two yards of it. “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed again, and paused to take a huge breath to steady her nerves as she saw Polly and Georgiana drawing themselves up for more, like angry cats.
Georgiana’s dark eyes flashed with loathing. “You are very presumptuous, Miss Peach,” she observed coldly, her knowledge of Polly’s surname revealing that she’d gone to the trouble to find out.
“I’m merely following your example. Lady Georgiana,” Polly responded. More gasps greeted this, but when she glanced at the marquess, to her astonishment, he gave her a slight smile, although he took care that Georgiana didn’t see.
Georgiana flushed. “You clearly have no idea how to go on, Miss Peach,” she said scathingly.
“If you are anything by which to judge. Lady Georgiana, I’m relieved not to know,” Polly retorted, standing her ground like a bantam cock. The marquess smiled again, and she felt quite awkward.
By now Georgiana had realized Polly wasn’t quite the easy victim she’d thought, so she brought the confrontation to a close. “Come, Algie, we’ll go where the company is more gracious,” she declared airily, and caught him in the act of a third sly smile. She struck his arm sharply with her parasol. “Algie!” she breathed, then marched from the shop. He grabbed his gloves and helmet from the counter, and hurried after her. The bell jangled, and then there was silence.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Miss Pennyfeather, thinking of the customer she had just lost.
All eyes were upon Polly, who did not quite know what to do. Her instinct was to scuttle out and have done with it, but then her spirit rebelled against such a craven act. She still wanted that day bonnet, and she was going to purchase it! Holding her chin up, she resumed her place at the end of the counter, and as she gazed steadfastly at the shelves once more, the other customers gradually returned to their own business, although there was a great deal of whispering.
Ten minutes later, Polly emerged in triumph. The lace bonnet was wrapped in brown paper in her reticule, and she’d found some very pretty buttons that would go very well on another gown she had at Horditall House. But anger with Georgiana still simmered beneath the surface, and Polly knew that the best way to deal with it would be to go for a long walk. Seeing a notice advertising the Halloween attractions at Sydney Gardens, she decided to see what the Bath Vauxhall was like, for although she’d been to the town before, she had never actually been to the gardens.
To get there, she had to cross
the Avon by beautiful Pulteney Bridge, which was lined on either side with little shops. From there she traversed Laura Place to proceed down residential Great Pulteney Street, the long prospect of which was closed by the handsome facade of the Sydney Hotel. Behind the hotel stood the autumn trees of the Vauxhall, which was laid out on rising land at the extreme eastern boundary of the town. High walls enclosed the hexagonal gardens, beyond which there was open countryside.
Admittance was through the hotel itself, the entrance being beneath a lofty portico supported by four fine Corinthian columns. The hotel was much frequented by Bath society, and the coffee room was consequently very full. The refined surroundings and undoubted dignity of the establishment made her think how excellent it would be if for any reason she was unable to leave Bath today. No sooner had the thought occurred, than she wisely decided to see if a room was available. She was in luck, for a gentleman had canceled his booking barely five minutes before. Apart from this one room, the hotel was completely full because of the expected presence of royalty at the Halloween celebrations, so without further ado she booked and paid for the room—just in case.
Chapter 23
From the double doors at the rear of the hotel, Polly emerged beneath an orchestra balcony into a wide semicircular area that was framed by private alcoves where meals could be enjoyed. A broad walk, crowded with people, ascended up an undulating slope toward a classical temple. Bowling greens, shrubberies, flowerbeds, groves, and waterfalls flanked the walk, and apart from the temple there was a sham castle and a labyrinth. Directly adjacent to the perimeter walls were broad rides, where many ladies and gentlemen exercised their fine mounts. Preparations were in hand for the Halloween bonfire and fireworks display, and from the size of the bonfire it was clear it would be a very elaborate affair indeed.
She strolled up the walk, enjoying the surroundings. Autumn leaves rustled underfoot, a blackbird sang its heart out in a silver birch tree, and the contretemps in the haberdashery now seemed a trivial affair that had ended most satisfactorily in Georgiana’s defeat. She even managed to banish Dominic to the far extremity of thought.
