by Syrie James
Rebecca awoke the next morning to a grey sky and low- hanging fog, which did nothing to improve her mood. Arriving at the appointed hour for breakfast, she found their hosts’ conversation to be limited to a lengthy discussion of the weather—(a shame it was not better for the Stanhopes’ first day at Bath—although at least it was not raining—when it rained, a man could walk out if he chose, but a lady simply could not go out for the day entire—far too wet and dirty—a carriage or sedan chair was required—one was so limited on a rainy day—impossible to shop or even stop in at Molland’s to enjoy a pastry—never venture out without an umbrella—) followed by an equally lengthy recounting of all the new arrivals listed in the Bath Chronicle. When they had read out each name, and exclaimed with delight over the people of interest and those who were familiar to them, Rebecca said with astonishment,
“Does the newspaper truly announce every single person who arrives at Bath?”
“Oh! No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Newgate, “only those persons of consequence. To learn about the rest, you must check the book at the pump-room.”
“You must make certain, Mr. Stanhope,” added Mr. Newgate, “to write your name and place of abode in the book at once. Such information is absolutely required, you know.”
“Required?” repeated Mr. Stanhope in surprise.
“Yes, by the order of 1787.”
“I had no idea. It has been nearly thirty years since I was at Bath. If you will be so kind as to guide me in that direction, I should be much obliged.”
The Newgates promised to escort them to the pump-room that very morning, insisting that it was the place to rendezvous, and not too distant, a mere stroll across the bridge. If they wished to explore much further than the closest streets beyond it, they must do so unescorted. They chose to live on Great Pulteney Street because it was so flat, and in such proximity to Sydney Gardens, as to make it convenient for regular outings. Many shops and parades Mrs. Newgate did not hesitate to walk to, but some destinations in Bath were along such steep hills—the Crescent and Upper Rooms, particularly—that they were obliged to use the carriage or call for a chair.
Soon after, they all left the house together. Exposed to the wonders of Bath on foot, Rebecca’s spirits rose. All around her were buildings and sights of interest and delight. Their route took them down Great Pulteney Street, through Laura Place (a very expensive and truly elegant place, explained Mrs. Newgate—one of the houses had two water-closets!) and across Pulteney Bridge, which did not appear to be a bridge at all, but like a street itself; for it was lined entirely on both sides with shops, one of them offering ice-creams and plum and saffron cakes. In no time at all they reached the Abbey Church, an immense Gothic edifice surmounted by all the requisite battlements, pinnacles, and parapets, and featuring a fine tower and a profusion of windows.
Immediately beyond the Church Yard, was the entrance to the pump-room. They issued within the large public room, to find a sizeable crowd gathered and milling about in stylish elegance, the hum of their conversation mingling with the efforts of the musicians performing in the west apse. Through the throng, Rebecca glimpsed a counter at the far end, where an attendant was dispensing glasses of water to a line of patrons. Rebecca’s admiring study of the room itself, which was impressively constructed of Bath stone and lined with tall, arched windows on one side, was impeded by Mrs. Newgate’s continuous stream of chatter, and her determination to introduce her new guests to every person she recognised or had ever met.
“The water should always be drunk hot from the pump,” said Mrs. Newgate. “Some prefer to drink it in the morning fasting, between the hours of six and ten, that it may have time to pass out of the stomach, before introducing food; but Mr. Newgate and I have never adhered to that notion—indeed, we cannot venture from the house until we have eaten a good breakfast—and we find it equally as beneficial to drink a glass at noon. Oh! Look there—it is Mrs. Worsted! She is quite high up, the wife of an admiral. I say, Mrs. Worsted! How nice to see you! Pray, allow me to introduce you to our new visitors who have only just arrived—they are cousins, thrice removed, on Mr. Newgate’s father’s side, and they know not a soul at Bath.”
Mr. Stanhope was the picture of patience and delight through these many introductions, which Rebecca, although grateful, found more overwhelming than any thing. While the gentlemen talked over the politics of the day and compared the accounts of the newspapers, the women gossiped about who had said and worn what at which party. Rebecca was aware of receiving stares from some of the ladies, as they studied her clothes; and she was disconcerted to note that their hats, gowns, and cloaks were newer and of a somewhat different style from hers. Nevertheless, she smiled and curtseyed, said what needed to be said, and graciously accepted promises of future invitations from one person after another.
The water, when Rebecca drank it, was rather unpleasant. She could only smile in wonder that any body should charge for it, and understood Mrs. Harcourt’s doubts as to how any one could derive a curative effect from it. After Mr. Stanhope signed the book, they met several additional people, one of them a very fashionably attired woman called Lady Ellington, who cordially invited Mr. and Mrs. Newgate, herself, and her father, to a soiree that evening, at her home.
“Well,” cried Mrs. Newgate with satisfaction, as they left the pump-room, “this is a lucky meeting, indeed; for Lady Ellington knows people in the best circle.”
Passing under a great stone colonnade, they emerged on a busy street, where they stopped for refreshment at a pastry shop. Although it was as spotless a place as any Rebecca had ever encountered, and Mr. Stanhope was delighted to see gooseberry tart on the bill of fare, he was suspicious of his fork, and requested another before he would deign to take a bite.
“I declare,” said Rebecca, greatly enjoying her first taste of the famous Bath Bun, and gazing about the shop in awe, “I have never dined out so often in my life as I have the past two days, since we left Medford.”
“In the country,” commented Mrs. Newgate through a mouthful of gooseberry pudding, “nearly every thing we eat is grown, raised, baked, preserved, or churned at home. What a tedious job it is to supervise all that! Here, we do not have to worry about any of it.”
“The food here is something wondrous,” agreed Mr. Newgate. “The principal markets are kept on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and supplied with every kind of provisions.”
“Is the butter fresh?” inquired Mr. Stanhope.
“Oh yes, fresh butter, equal to any in England, is brought in from the country every single morning.”
“And the meat? Is it of good quality?”
“Our butchers supply us with the best of meat every day. We get fish three times a week. And the prices are generally quite moderate.”
The threat of rain prevented them from doing any more exploring; and they had no sooner returned to the house, than a drizzle began to fall. While Mr. Newgate and Mr. Stanhope sat down to a game of backgammon in the study, the lady of the house asked Rebecca what she thought to wear to the party that evening. Rebecca showed her the gowns in her possession. Mrs. Newgate frowned, and said,
“I did not want to say any thing before, Miss Stanhope; but your gowns and other accoutrements, while perfectly fine in the country, are not quite up to the style expected in town. We must get you some new things at the earliest possible moment.”
Rebecca blushed. “I am afraid that will be impossible, madam. We have not the means for any new additions to my wardrobe.”
“I understand that, my dear. Mr. Stanhope represented your circumstances in his first letter to us. But pray, let us not allow that to stand in our way! My daughters have got rich husbands to buy their clothes now, so I am denied the pleasure. I shall make you a project, and purchase your new things myself. I am acquainted with all the best shops, and have an excellent dressmaker.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Rebecca, astonished, “but I cannot allow you to go to such expense on my behalf.”
“Mrs. Newgate! This is too much!” protested Rebecca. “My old cloak will do just fine.”
“If you intend, as we hope and wish, to accompany us to all the parties, concerts, balls, &c., over the ensuing weeks, then you must look your best. We are sure to be invited to drink tea with the Dowager Viscountess Carnarvon one evening next week, and we cannot have you making the wrong impression—to be thought of as the poor relation—oh! that would be mortifying, it would not do, particularly if you have any hope of catching a husband.”
The party that evening was like many other parties Rebecca had attended in Elm Grove, in that it involved a group of people gathered in a room, who passed the time conversing, drinking tea and coffee, listening to young ladies playing the pianoforte, and playing cards; but in every other respect it differed. There was no dinner (almost nobody in Bath, Mrs. Newgate explained, served dinner); Rebecca was not asked to play or sing; and other than her father and the Newgates, she knew not a single soul, which made her feel out of sorts and uncomfortable.
The only person who seemed to take more than a passing interest in her was a young officer by the name of Salisbury, who, although handsome in his red coat, was far more ready to talk about himself, than to receive any information about her. It was with relief that, when the hour of departure came, she was allowed to thank their hostess for including her, and made her escape in the company of the Newgates and her father.
CHAPTER IX
It rained the next day, but Mrs. Newgate was so determined that Rebecca should have new clothes as soon as possible, that she would not let the weather impede their shopping expedition. They proceeded to the linen-draper’s shop on Milsom Street by carriage, to begin looking for her gowns, which Mrs. Newgate promised could be made up in a short time by her dressmaker. The shop was busy, but they were quickly served, as Mrs. Newgate was well-known at that establishment. Rebecca was taken by the vast array of colours and patterns of cloth on display, but Mrs. Newgate insisted that the shopkeeper begin by showing them nothing but muslin, and only white.
“All the young ladies are wearing white now,” said Mrs. Newgate, “and muslin is the very thing.”
No sooner had the muslins been laid before them, than Mrs. Newgate saw an acquaintance across the room, and with delight, hurried over to greet her. The shopkeeper soon excused herself to help some one else, leaving Rebecca to her deliberations. There were several viable alternatives, including plain white, spotted, and sprigged, and she could not decide.
“Which one is best?” murmured Rebecca to herself.
“I think the plain white is the nicest,” said a soft, feminine voice beside her.
Rebecca turned in surprise, to find two fashionably attired young women standing close by. Both had fine figures and an air and countenance which at once reflected good breeding and real elegance. One was tall, fair, pretty, and smiling; the other was shorter, dark-haired, reserved, and so beautiful, that Rebecca could not help gaping at her. They looked to be Rebecca’s age or perhaps a year or two older, and were so unlike in features and complexion that Rebecca concluded they could not be related. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh! I thought you were speaking to us,” said the fair-haired young lady. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I was talking to myself, which was poor company indeed, when making such a choice, for other views are greatly valued.” Rebecca smiled, adding, “You prefer the plain, then?”
“It is fresh and clean,” said the fair-haired young woman, with quiet grace. As she spoke, she studied Rebecca in an enquiring manner, as if attempting to place her. “I own two plain white muslin gowns. They are ideal for day or evening, can be worn with any colour of bonnet, and adorned with any shade of ribbon.”
“That is excellent advice. Thank you.” Rebecca imme diately felt drawn to the young lady, for her manners were neither shy nor affectedly open, but something in between, which felt warm and genuine; at the same time, she looked vaguely familiar, although Rebecca could not think why.
She was about to solicit a second opinion, but the other young lady was frowning with disapproval, and in a cool and distant manner said, “Catherine, we ought not to be speaking to her. We have not been introduced.”
“I suppose that is true. I did not think of it,” replied her companion with chagrin, exchanging an awkward and apologetic look with Rebecca.
Rebecca had never been overly concerned with such formalities, yet did not wish, on such new acquaintance, to make a social faux pas; and all three glanced round in uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Newgate, faced away from them, was still engaged in lively conversation with a woman on the other side of the shop; and no one else appeared interested or available to intervene. All at once, the fair-haired young lady said gently,
“Wait a moment. Are not you Miss Rebecca Stanhope, of Elm Grove?”
“I am.” The answer now came to Rebecca as to why she believed she knew the lady, although it had been many years since she had seen her. “And you are Miss Catherine Clifton!”
“The very same!”
Rebecca had met Miss Clifton when they were children, and once or twice since, whenever her family stayed with their relations at Claremont Park. Although Rebecca could not at present think of Mr. Clifton without negative feelings, she harboured no ill-will towards his sisters—and she recalled Catherine Clifton, the youngest, as a sweet, affable girl.
Miss Clifton smiled with pleasure at this unexpected encounter, as she introduced her companion and particular friend, Miss Laura Russell, and they all shook hands.
“I always enjoyed our trips to Elm Grove,” said Miss Clifton, “and wished I could have gone more often. But once my older brother, sisters, and cousins were married and gone, my aunt and uncle showed little interest in me; it was only Philip they invited to Claremont Park for the summer and holidays, to keep company with their son Brook.”
“It is no wonder your aunt and uncle were partial to him,” said Miss Russell. “Mr. Clifton is very amiable.”
“Indeed he is,” agreed Miss Clifton. To Rebecca, she added, “I have the most delightful memory of a particular Christmas, when I was ten years old or so, and we were all gathered at Claremont Park for a grand celebration.”
“I recall it perfectly,” said Rebecca. “The older girls looked so lovely in their gowns. We younger ones had great fun playing together; and there was such food and music and dancing.”
“You stood up and sang very beautifully; and on Sunday, your father gave the most interesting sermon I had ever heard. I cannot remember now what he spoke about, but it was the first time I had ever really listened to what was said at church.”
“My father did excel in that regard,” replied Rebecca proudly. “He took pleasure in writing his own sermons whenever he could, instead of simply reading from a text.”
Miss Clifton turned to Miss Russell, and explained, “Mr. Stanhope was the rector of Elm Grove before Philip took over the—” She paused and coloured, a thought seeming to come to her, which prevented her from continuing.
“Pray, do not be distressed,” said Rebecca quickly. “My father is now retired, and wishes Mr. Clifton well in his curacy.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” was Miss Clifton’s relieved reply. The quiet look which she directed at Rebecca was imbued with kindness and sympathy, as well as a mild confusion, revealing without words how little she understood, and yet how much she felt, with regard to that event. A brief pause succeeded; then she said, “Philip has often spoken of you, Miss Stanhope, and mentioned you in his lette
rs.”
“Indeed?” Rebecca was surprised to hear that Philip Clifton ever thought of her at all, much less had spoken to or written about her to his sister. Wishing very much to change the subject, she enquired, “How long have you been at Bath?”
“Two weeks. We are here with my mother and father, who is suffering from a stomach ailment. Thank goodness Laura agreed to come, to keep me company, for papa thinks to stay another two or three weeks at least. He drinks to-day at the Hetling Pump, is to bathe tomorrow, and try electricity on Friday.” Lowering her voice, Miss Clifton added, “I expect no advantage from it; but he and my mother are hopeful.”
“I pray that it has good effect.”
“Thank you. What brings you to Bath? I hope your father is well?”
“He is. We are not here for the waters. We have come to—to visit a distant cousin, Mr. Newgate and his wife.” Rebecca pointed out Mrs. Newgate, who was still chattering with another lady at the front of the shop, and now turned slightly, allowing her countenance to be viewed from a better angle.
Miss Clifton’s eyes grew wide, and she smiled. “It is a small world, Miss Stanhope. I am well acquainted with Mrs. Newgate, and the lady with whom she is speaking is my mother.”
The new friends made their acquaintanceship known to their elders, who shared their delight in the circumstance. Rebecca recognised Mrs. Clifton from the few occasions when they had met at Claremont Park. A good-looking woman, she was as gracious and agreeable as her daughter. The two parties then assembled to share opinions and advice as they completed their purchases—two gowns for Rebecca (one plain white muslin, one pink silk) and one for Miss Clifton (in sprigged yellow)—after which they made their way, under cover of umbrellas, to several nearby shops, where Rebecca had the pleasure of four (sometimes conflicting) views to guide her selections of a new hat, gloves, slippers, and shawl.
