He conveyed the message that his wife had the address of an employment agency for procuring a lady’s maid, which she was sure Mrs. Wilkins would need, and in the meantime offered the services of any one of the maids at the hotel. He also confided to her that the Pelican had been honoured by a visit from Dr. Samuel Johnson, the famous man of letters who had created the dictionary. Roxanne duly admired the room, in which it was said he had stayed, and emerged feeling more intelligent.
Miss Skittering arrived after breakfast the next morning, impatient to assume her role as guide and companion during her new friend’s sojourn in Bath. She launched into a detailed description of what Bath had to offer the discerning visitor. Bath, although no longer the fashionable resort it had been in its heyday, was still well-patronised as a spa town and offered enough attractions and social activities to please everyone. There was plenty to do. In Miss Skittering’s opinion, the only drawback to Bath was finding enough time to partake in everything available. One could visit the Pump Room and the Upper and Lower Assembly Rooms every day to meet up with friends or simply mingle. If one preferred antiquity, there was always the fifteenth century Abbey and the Roman baths. There were excellent shops, several libraries, and a number of coffee-shops. Clasping her hands in excitement, she described the numerous opportunities for scenic walks, picnics, carriage rides, and promenades as well as a variety of day excursions around the area, all of which made the place eminently desirable.
At the end of her eloquent speech, Miss Skittering, looking pleased, asked, “So, what would you like to do first?”
“But, Sybilla,” Roxanne explained patiently, “while I would certainly enjoy visiting the attractions Bath has to offer, searching for my Aunt Cecily is my first priority.”
“Yes, of course,” said her companion, her eager expression fading. “It’s just that getting out and about in Bath is also a way to encounter your aunt. Unless she is elderly and bedridden, and even then someone somewhere in our social activities might have heard of her. Of course, one could always place an advertisement in the newspaper, but I fear that could appear…” She hesitated, searching for the right word.
Roxanne eyed the little woman whose initial enthusiasm was now dampened. “You’re quite right, Sybilla,” she said gently. “How clever you are. Of course the best way to find someone is by mixing with the local residents. I would not want to embarrass my aunt by placing an advertisement that might invade her privacy.”
When Miss Skittering’s face lit up at her words, Roxanne chided herself inwardly.
I am so selfish. Here is a kind person who is trying to help me and who also wants to enjoy my company.
Her assessment of her new friend’s motives was correct because Miss Skittering confessed that she could hardly wait to revisit the charms of the town with a visitor. During the course of conversation at a pleasant coffee shop in Milsom Street, Miss Skittering revealed that she had lived all her life in Bath and although she had never married, there had once been a special person in the distant past. Her lips trembled and a few crumbs fell onto her napkin as she toyed with the slice of cherry cake on her plate. Alas, her parents had not approved of the gentleman, saying his prospects were not good enough for their only daughter. By the time they both died, he had married someone else and moved away to Winchester.
“I know you understand the feeling of loss one experiences when a loved one has gone,” she said in a watery whisper, dabbing her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. The tip of her nose went red as she sniffed and pretended to dig in her reticule for something.
Roxanne nodded, not daring to confess anything further to her friend who, while possessing a good and generous nature, clearly loved emotional drama in any form. She was also trying to push memories and reminders of Julian to the back of her mind. Any discussion on matters of the heart was sure to prove fatal.
Miss Skittering gave her a bright smile as she made a last dab with her handkerchief. “How dreary I am, to be sure,” she cried. “You must be keen to get out and start exploring. Let’s take a walk. Bath is a place where people walk, you know.”
Miss Skittering was right, as Roxanne discovered shortly afterwards. In Bath, people walked, both for health reasons and because the town itself was hilly, with steeply inclined streets. Miss Skittering maintained a brisk trot up the slopes and Roxanne had to hurry to keep up with her, wondering how such a fragile looking creature possessed limitless energy.
Miss Skittering pointed out a plump, elderly woman dressed in the fashion of yesteryear, with nodding plumes, hooped skirts, and a large quantity of rouge as one citizen who would benefit from the advantages of a good walk every day. The woman, who gave Miss Skittering a polite wave while yodeling, “Coo-ee, Miss Skittering,” squeezed her ample rear into a sedan chair carried by two burly chairmen.
Miss Skittering gave a disapproving tut. “Mrs. Cromer is the laziest person I know. I declare, if she could travel everywhere without her feet touching the ground then she would!”
Miss Skittering seemed to be on nodding terms with many of the passers-by as she dispensed snippets of gossip to Roxanne, revealing herself to be a fountain of knowledge on the town and its inhabitants. Yet, she professed her ignorance of anyone called Cecily Chesney.
They sat outside Duffield’s library, where Miss Skittering changed her book. Roxanne was glad to rest for a few minutes while her companion racked her brains on the subject of Aunt Cecily.
“Did your aunt ever marry?” she asked. “Of course that would make her harder to find because not many people go around discussing who they were before they got married. They’re just so glad someone married them.”
Roxanne decided Miss Skittering’s acid tone derived from her own romantic disappointment, especially when she pointed out someone just recently married and remarked that “if Miss Kitchen was ever Miss Kitchen before she became Mrs. Blake, she would never own to it in daily conversation!”
“I have no idea about Aunt Cecily,” Roxanne confessed. “She might have married, but Father never mentioned it. They had a quarrel about something and then I suppose they drifted apart.”
Miss Skittering’s brow furrowed in thought. “This is a formidable task indeed, my dear, but not an insurmountable one. We shall prevail.” Noticing Roxanne’s downcast expression, Miss Skittering patted her hand. “Just you wait and see!”
Within a few days Miss Skittering introduced Roxanne to life in Bath. The Pelican Hotel was so comfortable and the landlord all smiles and eagerness to please, as well as the rates being so very reasonable, that Roxanne decided to stay for two weeks before making any decisions about renting lodgings. Her money would last if she was frugal, but Roxanne was aware that soon she must either find her aunt or find employment.
“Employment?” Miss Skittering gave a tiny screech of horror, flinging up her lace-mittened hands at the suggestion of earning a living. “My dear Roxanne, you are a lady and cannot possibly work.”
“My resources are not unlimited,” Roxanne said firmly, aware that although Miss Skittering’s parents had dashed her matrimonial hopes, they had left her with a comfortable independence. She also had a generous elder brother somewhere in Oxfordshire who supplemented her income and would never see his sister destitute. It was clear that although the lady practiced certain economies, Miss Skittering passed her days in Bath very pleasantly without any pressing financial woes.
Bath residents and visitors enjoyed particular rituals that gave both purpose and meaning to their day. This began with the daily morning visit to the Pump Room to drink the waters, a substance Roxanne found tasted so foul that she declined after one sip.
“But my dear Roxanne,” said Miss Skittering in tones of shock and horror. “Bath is famous for the revivifying effects of its mineral water. Why, several of my acquaintances take sometimes two or even three glasses a day and they swear by it.”
Roxanne wanted to burst out laughing at the sight of Miss Skittering, mouth open, eyes bulging, and her t
iny frame trembling with outrage at the slight against the unique properties of the celebrated Bath waters.
“I am sure they do and that they are made of sterner stuff than I am,” she said firmly, placing her glass down upon a nearby table. “Thank you, but no thank you. This tastes like ditch water. I have never drunk ditch water, but I imagine this is what it would taste like. I have a delicate stomach and would hate to end up feeling too sick to find Aunt Cecily.”
Miss Skittering sat down and blinked several times, composing herself. She took a large, restorative gulp from her glass, pulled a face reminiscent of a child drinking foul medicine and shuddered. “I myself have an amazingly strong digestion. Papa was always wont to say I had an iron stomach.”
Roxanne wished she could say the same. She did not have a delicate stomach at all, but lately she felt so ill in the mornings that she could stand only dry toast and black tea with ginger, a concoction pressed upon her by the landlord’s wife. This diet seemed to work because she usually felt better by midday.
To take her mind off her present nausea, Roxanne glanced about the Pump Room. It was an eye-catching building, with visitors entering through the grand Ionic colonnade decorating the exterior. Inside, visitors were free to wander about the large, well-appointed room with its tall multi-paned windows. Benches and seats were available for visitors to rest or chat with a bevy of acquaintances and friends. A small orchestra played, creating a pleasant social atmosphere.
Miss Skittering looked up. “Oh, my dear! There’s that kind Mr. Clarkson and his nephew.” She pressed her hand to her mouth, consternation written on her face. “I wonder. Do they see us?” She frowned. “I cannot call out to him. That would not be right. Perhaps I could wave?”
Her little hand, brandishing a handkerchief, rose high in the air. Mr. Clarkson, proving himself to be a man of discernment, spotted the two women and waved back.
Miss Skittering flushed deep pink. “Are they coming over? I daresay I look a terrible fright. My hair must be all blown about from walking here this morning and just think I have on a dreadful old gown because I had not the slightest idea we should see anyone particular today. And—”
Roxanne pressed her hand. “Hush, Sybilla. You look very charming indeed and not at all windblown.”
Miss Skittering gazed at her friend. “But you are so beautiful, my dear, that all the men stare at you so very much, even though they pretend to be looking at something just behind you.”
Roxanne laughed. “Nonsense. I am perfectly ordinary and besides—” she indicated her plain navy gown with a deprecating gesture “—see how I am dressed. You look very fine indeed today. No doubt Mr. Clarkson is admiring your attire.”
Roxanne was convinced Mr. Clarkson had fallen in love because the gentleman had eyes only for Miss Skittering, who looked years younger with a pink flush of excitement in her cheeks. Her russet gown with a cream lace trim at the neck and sleeves complemented her bright brown eyes. She clutched her reticule as if she did not know where to put it.
“I do chatter dreadfully when I am nervous so please feel free to interrupt me if I say anything silly.”
Then Mr. Clarkson appeared in front of them, bowing and shaking hands. He was a pleasant looking man of medium height and build. He dressed as a man of means, rather than of fashion, but no one could fault the cut of his coat or the tying of his necktie. Although he could not be described as handsome, he had regular features, deeply tanned skin, and blue eyes that creased at the corners when he smiled. He appeared to be in his late forties. When he bowed over Miss Skittering’s hand Roxanne noticed how he held it a fraction longer than necessary. Miss Skittering was speechless in pink confusion before snatching her hand from his grasp and hastily introducing Roxanne to the gentlemen. Mr. Clarkson then shook Roxanne’s hand, introduced himself and his nephew, Daniel, hovering on one side, and asked if she felt quite recovered from her ordeal.
“I am, thank you, sir,” Roxanne replied. “I am grateful for your assistance that day.”
“Not at all,” he demurred. “It is a gentleman’s duty to be of assistance to a lady in need.”
Mr. Clarkson proved an easy conversationalist and soon had the two ladies laughing and gasping in amazement at his tales of life in India. His nephew Daniel looked very much like Julian, with his fair hair brushed into the Windswept style, his elegant manner of dress, his charm and good humour. He was polite and attentive as befitting a young man of excellent upbringing, but every now and then his gaze strayed to a radiant young woman across the room, laughing in a circle of friends. Sometimes she glanced in their direction. Her golden curls danced as she shook her head. Roxanne thought Daniel looked longingly at her.
“I can see you’ll do nothing but moon over Miss Gifford while I endeavour to entertain the two charming ladies we already have in our company,” said Mr. Clarkson in mock reproach.
Daniel turned red and mumbled an apology.
Roxanne placed a hand on his sleeve. “Your uncle is entertaining Miss Skittering and me so wonderfully with stories of your travels in India that I fear we are neglecting you. Why don’t you pay your respects to Miss Gifford while Mr. Clarkson keeps us amused?”
Daniel looked at her with an expression of gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilkins.” He added in a low voice that only she heard, “Bless you.”
Roxanne felt a shock when he called her Mrs. Wilkins, as if her huge lie had jumped out to confront her. But nothing happened to contradict him. No one materialised to call her a fibber and a cheat. She realised that people accepted her for who she said she was.
Miss Skittering pulled her sleeve. “My dear, you are missing the most exciting part of the story. Mr. Clarkson is at the point where the royal elephant, maddened by the howdah falling off its back, is heading towards the rajah’s palace, trampling everything in its path!”
Roxanne turned her attention back to the conversation. “Forgive me, my thoughts were wandering.”
Mr. Clarkson smiled. “Daniel is my late brother’s son. He is all I’ve got. I have no wife or family of my own, so I look upon him as a son.”
Miss Skittering went even pinker as she sighed. “Oh, what a wonderful thing, to have a family of your own.”
There was a heavy silence, brimful with meaning. Then Mr. Clarkson coughed. “About that elephant!”
Roxanne heard Miss Skittering’s little shrieks of terror as Mr. Clarkson continued his story of the maddened elephant, but her mind had already drifted back to Penrose. Penrose, where now she would be instructing Sam in the garden, or discussing the week’s menus with Mrs. Dawson, or perhaps she might even have finished darning that pile of pillow cases she had never quite completed. And what of Julian? She could almost see him in front of her now, tired and dishevelled from a day with his tenant farmers, but excited about the progress made with the planting. How she had smiled when he arranged the salt cellar, pepper pot, and other table items to show exactly where everything was located on the estate and how each farming problem was being attended to in the best possible way. She loved the way he flung himself down in his favourite chair in the parlour, his legs stretched out in front of him, Rufus’s head on his knee while he relaxed and shared the events of his day with her.
“What an excellent raconteur you are, Mr. Clarkson. I declare that is the most exciting story I have ever heard!” Miss Skittering exclaimed, clapping softly. “Don’t you think so too, Roxanne?”
“Absolutely,” Roxanne replied, not having heard a word.
Chapter Sixteen
The encounter with Mr. Clarkson and his nephew was the first of several pleasant social engagements where Roxanne was introduced to members of Miss Skittering’s circle of friends. Roxanne observed the growing romance between Miss Skittering and her admirer, for certainly he was that, with some amusement. She also noticed the anguish Daniel Clarkson seemed to be undergoing, as if he wrestled with some silent inner turmoil.
One day, Miss Skittering suggested they meet up f
or a long walk to Beechen Cliff to take in a view of the city and enjoy what she called “picturesque beauty as described by the Reverend William Gilpin” of the surrounding countryside. Mr. Clarkson lent himself readily to the proposed expedition, while Daniel acquiesced in a less enthusiastic manner, which Roxanne surmised had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with matters of the heart.
On that occasion, Miss Skittering’s maid accompanied the group, keeping a discreet distance. Roxanne did not know Miss Skittering had a maid as she had never required the woman’s presence before. However, it appeared that in the company of gentlemen when outside the town, Miss Skittering was not to be found wanting in propriety.
The group fell into a natural division during the walk whereby Mr. Clarkson accompanied Miss Skittering, even taking her arm to help her over rougher patches of ground or a steep section. Roxanne hid a smile and confined herself to listening to Daniel’s outpourings on the subject of unrequited love.
Daniel was head over heels in love with Miss Clarissa Gifford, she of the guinea-gold curls and the sparkling blue eyes. According to the love-lorn youth, the young lady’s parents frowned on the idea of their only daughter throwing herself away on the first ardent suitor who crossed her path. Instead, they encouraged her to meet a wide variety of friends in order to expand her social horizons. Roxanne silently applauded Miss Gifford’s sensible parents who clearly hoped to give their daughter the best chance of choosing the right man in the end. However, she felt a pang as Daniel described his frustration and disappointment; he also confessed to being raging jealous of the other young men whose company Miss Gifford seemed to enjoy.
“Clarissa—I mean Miss Gifford—said I was being mumpish yesterday when I joined her group in the Assembly Rooms.” His tone was that of a disgruntled suitor. “Mumpish?”
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