by Robert Neill
It looked much better. Lord Barford . . . Lady St. Hollith . . . she had been in Cheltenham before, with a husband . . . no sign of him now . . . some talk of a brother who might be joining them, but there would still be plenty of room. Mr. King nodded and remembered that he had called and been well impressed. They had known what they were doing, these two. Lord Barford had hired the house in ample time, and had brought his servants with him. The niece knew how to run it, and Lord Barford was a man of affairs, a former Ambassador, who knew almost everyone. He might know Hildersham, and Mr. King tinkled his bell. He was too tired now to walk to Royal Crescent, so he called for his cream-and-gold phaeton which his proprietors maintained for him, and in which, contrary to custom, he had a man to drive him. It was the best-known equipage in Cheltenham, and it meant a deal of hat-lifting for Mr. King.
He did not let that disturb him. He could do it by habit, and he was again a picture of smiling ease as the phaeton went swaying down the High Street in the sunlight of the May afternoon. It turned away, and after the noise and throng of the High Street it came to quiet. This was a road for walking more than driving, and only a hundred yards or so was metalled, running past a fine stone colonnade. Ahead was a wide grassy track, crossing a stream and then rising to a low wooded hill where there were signs of activity as if building were beginning. But the phaeton was not concerned with that. It turned away again, going parallel to the High Street, and another minute took it through a belt of trees from which it emerged to a wide sweep of grass. Ahead was the Royal Crescent, a dozen and a half of tall houses, the last not three years old, built in one curving block in the style that was known at Bath, and distinguished by the balconies of ornamental iron that hung above the simple doors. The road ran to the Crescent and round it, and at one of the doors the phaeton stopped. Mr. King smoothed his pantaloons and pulled his coat straight. Then he walked across the pavement and up the steps to the door.
Lord Barford was at home. It was four o’clock and he was waiting for dinner, but he had time for Mr. King. Everyone in Cheltenham had time for Mr. King, and he was given a brimming glass of madeira, which he seemed to accept more thankfully than he always did. Nor did he demur when his host stretched forward a minute later to refill it.
‘That’s better,’ said Barford affably. ‘You’re looking tired.’
‘I must admit, my lord, I am. Time tells, I’m afraid.’
‘It tells all of us, and yours must be a tiring work.’
‘You do it in the winter, don’t you?’ put in Lady St. Hollith from his other side. ‘Aren’t you the Master of Ceremonies at Bath, too?’
‘Indeed yes. I never get any rest.’
‘I’m afraid you won’t, with all these people here. The town seems very full.’
‘I’ve never known it so full. But that, my lord, is what brings me to you.’
Mr. King fortified himself again with the madeira and then contrived to explain the matter. They heard him attentively, and Barford seemed delicately amused.
‘Young Hildersham, is it? Quite like his father. But who is the lady?’
‘I--er--understand, my lord, that she’s a widow to whom his lordship has--er--certain obligations.’
‘Then I’ll assume she’s young. And attractive?’
‘Exceedingly, my lord.’
‘Lucky fellow, isn’t he, with obligations of that sort? Well, what do you want me to do? Custos morum, is it--to Hildersham?’ His lordship’s eyebrows quivered. ‘That’s a new role for me to play.’
‘But if you would consent, my lord?’
‘My niece will see more of him than I shall. So what do you say to it, Mary?’
‘I think we must.’ She answered him firmly, and seemed in no doubt of it. ‘We’ve an obligation to him. Or, at least, I have.’
‘More obligations?’ He was a little sharper. ‘What’s this one, please?’
‘You know what help he gave John when---‘
‘Your father? Bringing him home? But of course.’ Barford nodded quickly. ‘Stupid of me. I’d forgotten it was Hildersham.’
‘But it was.’
‘Then certainly we must take him in. Very well, sir. It shall be as you say. When do you wish him to come?’
‘Oh, tonight, if you please. That’s important. But I’m infinitely obliged---‘
‘Not at all. How of tonight, Mary? Can it be done?’
‘Why not? He’d better hurry, though, if he wants dinner.’
‘I’ll convey that to him.’ Mr. King rose a little uncertainly to his feet. ‘Your ladyship’s most grateful servant. Yours, my lord.’
‘Don’t hurry, sir. You’ll have another glass before you go? Call it medicinal.’
Mr. King; was persuaded. He took another five minutes, and then the phaeton went crunching away through the trees to the Colonnade. Barford turned quizzically to his niece.
‘Good of you to remember Hildersham. You’re quite right, of course.’ Again there was that flicker of the eyebrow. ‘To judge from the brightness I noted in your eye, I’ll suppose you were not unwilling?’
‘No?’ She faced him quite calmly. ‘But consider the effect in the Pump Room.’
‘What effect?’
‘Not your usual quickness, sir.’ She began to sound sardonic. ‘The effect on the company.’
‘I beg your pardon. I must be getting old. I’ll so far oblige you that I’ll desist from the waters for a day or two, and stay comfortably in bed till breakfast.’
‘I don’t wish to deprive you of them.’
‘It’s no deprivation at all. You may have his escort unalloyed. It will establish you in this company.’
‘It should do. They haven’t taken much notice of me yet, but they won’t miss Jack.’
‘You call him that?’
‘Why not? He was a friend of Charles, which is how we met.’
‘Then if I may presume to advise . . .’ ‘By all means.’
‘Say Jack in the Pump Room. That will set you up.’
‘I’d thought of it.’
‘You’re evidently learning. All this, of course, supposes that he’s willing to take the waters.’
‘Since he’s my guest, he can hardly avoid it.’
‘You think of everything. How of this Mrs. Masters, by the way? Suppose she takes the waters?’
‘From this house he’ll have to escort me, and that’s what matters. Now I’d better see to putting dinner back or it will be so burned that he’ll need the waters. Forgive me.’
She went cheerfully away, and Barford settled placidly with his wine. He was still sitting comfortably over it when Hildersham arrived in a hired phaeton, followed by his servant and five travelling trunks. He came cheerfully in, big and genial, and was at once apologizing for his intrusion.
‘I hadn’t a chance, sir. Truly I hadn’t. Little Twitters just pushed me at you.’
‘You mean Mr. King?’
‘If that’s his name. Ah, Mary!’
She had appeared in the hall, and she was not left to ask what terms they were on. Hildersham gave her a firm lead, going to her at once and kissing her with an assurance that did not seem to displease her. Then he stood smiling down at her, with his hands still on her shoulders.
‘Mary, I’m delighted. I haven’t seen you for--how long? Five years, isn’t it?’
‘Six, more likely.’
‘It’s scandalous. I did write to you, though, when---‘
‘I know you did.’
‘Don’t let’s talk about it. You’re more charming than ever.’
‘Am I?’ She leaned back with a little touch of colour in her cheeks. ‘How many have you said that to?’
‘Hundreds, but this time I mean it.’
‘Jack, you’re impossible. You haven’t improved at all.’
‘I probably shan’t. But, Mary, I am glad. I’d not expected this in Cheltenham.’
‘Nor had I. Come and have dinner.’
‘It’s only five o’clock.’
‘The devil you do! Tell me about the place.’
She told him at dinner, coming to it when they had dealt with the trout and ducklings and were turning their attention to a roast of lamb, and she came to it without having to be prompted. She could have been thought purposeful.
‘You’re here to drink the waters,’ she told him. ‘That’s assumed.’
‘Waters! In the name of charity---‘
‘I said assumed. There’s no actual need to drink the stuff, but you must be seen in the Long Room with a glass in your hand.’
‘That’s a relief. What’s the Long Room?’
‘The place where you drink it.’
‘Or pretend to? Do I have to pay for it?’
‘In Cheltenham you pay for everything. You pay for the waters, by subscription--extra to walk in the grounds--and having paid for the water you tip the woman who pumps it. Then you tip the band.’
‘Can’t I hear them first?’
‘Certainly. And be ready at seven-fifteen, please.’
‘Mary, there’s a right time for jokes.’
‘The time for this one is seven-fifteen.’
‘But please--you’re not serious?’ He turned cheerfully to Barford. ‘Do you rise at that hour, sir?’
‘Since you’re some thirty-five years younger, I’ll make way gracefully.’
‘Overwhelmed by your kindness, sir. Is it light at seven-fifteen?’
‘Excellently,’ said Mary, ‘and very pleasant in a May morning. I’ll take you to the Old Well, unless you prefer a chalybeated saline?’
‘I don’t prefer anything. What is it?’
‘I think it means iron. You go to Montpellier for it.’
‘I hope you like it. What else does one do? You don’t drink this stuff all day?’
‘Heavens, no! You begin the day with it. Then breakfast--ten o’clock is usual, and after that . . .’ She paused, her face crinkling with amusement. ‘There’s really nothing till dinner. We saunter in the rides and walks, and there’s music in the Pump Rooms, and harmless cards.’
‘Harmless?’
‘No money to be staked.’
‘Hell!’
‘Join the Subscription Card Club,’ said Barford calmly. ‘You can lose all you’ve a mind to there.’
‘Thank you. But go on, Mary. What more amusement?’
‘Subscription libraries, pastry cooks, a coffee room at the Plough. Have you taken to what they call luncheon?’
‘Of course I haven’t.’
‘Then that’s about all till after dinner, and then the place wakes up. There’s something every night at the Assembly Rooms: theatre parties, card assemblies, balls--you dance, I hope?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Don’t forget the shopping,’ said Barford drily. ‘That’s the ladies’ pleasure, and we are required as escorts. Since they spend most of their time just talking, it follows that we spend most of ours just waiting.’
‘Another pleasure, sir, in which you’re making way for me?’
‘I’m desolated, but instinct tells me that that is what will happen. Either with Mary or . . .’ He paused delicately. ‘I hear that you’ve a lady with you already. Mrs. Masters, is it?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I’ve no curiosity, of course. Neither has Mary. It’s just that we’d like to know.’
‘Exactly. Well--how did the tale go? An attractive young widow, I think we said.’
‘To whom you have obligations?’
‘Well, that part’s true.’ Hildersham sat back with a grin, in no way disconcerted. ‘But really, sir, there’s nothing to it. It’s finished with. She was amusing while it lasted, but. . .’
‘Then why bring her?’
‘Oh, I’d promised it. She’s unusual.’
‘They all are. In what way?’
‘She didn’t seem to want anything. No demands at all.’
‘That’s a danger sign. But how long did your affair last?’
‘Oh, quite three weeks. In the end, of course, I had to ask her what she wanted. You have to do, sometimes.’
‘And you’re finding it expensive? She must have a brain.’
‘I’m not sure. But that’s what she asked for--a few weeks in Cheltenham in a house of her own. Promised not to disturb me, or ask anything more. So what could I do but see to it?’
‘Nothing, when she’d played the ace. And is that the end of it?’
‘I’ve promised her introductions if there’s anyone here I know. Otherwise it’s finished.’ He turned slowly, and his friendly eyes were very steady. ‘Mary, I’ve been honest about it. Does it put me from your favour?’
‘Why should it? I know something of the world, and I knew something of Charles too. I’m not saying I liked it, but I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t change Charles.’
‘But he was proud of you. You’ll be seen with me, then--in a Pump Room?’
‘Or anywhere else. As long as she isn’t with you, of course. I must keep appearances.’
‘That’s understood. Well--here’s to the simple life, chalybeate and all! Is there news of your brother?’
‘John?’ She was frowning thoughtfully. ‘We don’t seem to hear much from him. He isn’t good at letters. He’d a notion, it seems, of spending the winter with a friend of his.’
‘Grant, was it?’
‘Yes, if--if you know him.’
‘We’ve met. He had to leave Town, you know, after---’
‘Yes, I know.’ She cut him short quickly. ‘But John wasn’t able to go with him for long. He was called back to his regiment, and he hadn’t expected that. He thought he had indefinite leave.’
‘Oh, I see. Comes of being a Regular, I suppose. Is he still with them?’
‘I don’t know. The last we heard was that he was thinking of selling his commission and getting out altogether.’
‘I don’t think I blame him.’
‘Perhaps not. So what he’ll do I don’t know. He might even turn up here.’
‘I’d like to see him. And how about Grant, by the way? Will he come too?’
‘Why ask me?’ She was looking down at her plate as she carefully slit a grape. ‘There was some talk of it, but he never wrote. So I can’t tell you.’
‘Then let’s hope he comes. I liked him. Pleasant fellow, I thought.’
‘Yes.’ She was intent on the grape again. ‘I suppose he might be.’
‘Well . . .’ Hildersham seemed to be suddenly aware of a silence in the room, and his tone changed quickly. ‘Do we go to the Well in the morning? What time did you say?’
‘Seven-fifteen, please. And look as if you like it.’
17 The Long Room
The Royal Crescent had been built for the morning sun. It faced south-east, to the Cotswold Hills, and it was full in the light, its windows sparkling and its doors gleaming, as Hildersham stood waiting on the pavement, enjoying the sun and the pale-blue sky with a touch of gilded cloud. He glanced at his watch, which showed exactly seven-fifteen, and then turned with his quick smile as Mary appeared in the doorway, dressed for the spa in a flowered bonnet and a pelisse of green-and-white jaconet. He lifted his tall tapering hat and stood bareheaded, the sun gleaming on his Wellington frock and full-length pantaloons as she came briskly down the steps to join him. They walked together round the Crescent and then by a path through the dew-spangled grass to a low bridge of ornamental iron that spanned the little stream that was the Chelt. Ahead of them, to the south-west, a wide gravel path climbed through an avenue of trees to the Well, some two hundred yards up the gentle slope. Already it was dotted with people, some walking slowly in twos and threes, some pausing for breath on the seats that fringed the verges of the walk. Hildersham chuckled at the sight, and solemnly offered Mary his arm. She took it as solemnly, and together they went strolling up the Old Well Walk.
The Well was simple, being no mo
re than that: an open well, some twelve feet deep, set in a paved court and furnished with a simple canopy on four brick pillars. But flanking it, on either side of the court, were two plain buildings of a decent size, in the honey-coloured Cotswold stone, one the Long Room where the company could assemble, and the other a sale-room for fancy goods. Hildersham chuckled again, and then turned to look back down the Walk across the bridge and over the grass to the spire of the parish church, exactly in the centre of the vista. Mary looked with him, still with her hand on his arm. ‘Rustic?’ she inquired with a smile.
‘Never mind. I’ve seen worse prospects. But I’m not sure I like this one.’
He had turned to the sale-room at the side, which announced that it was Fasana’s Repository, and together they strolled across to look. Its big windows faced the pump and offered a display of glass and pottery, maps and guide-books, prints and water-colours, artists’ materials, beads and brooches, and trinkets of every kind.
‘Don’t be too critical,’ she told him. ‘People like this sort of thing. They buy presents here to take home.’
‘They waste their money.’
‘Are you the one to say it?’
‘No.’ He laughed cheerfully as he turned to face the pump. ‘What about this stuff we’re to drink? What does it do to you, by the way?’
‘Don’t ask. Or ask your physician.’
‘I didn’t bring one.’
‘Then do some guessing. But this is where you get it.’
She led him to the canopy over the well. Under it was a simple bench with a hand-pump and a range of glasses, and Mrs. Forty, the pumper, lost no time. Her smooth slow pull at the handle set the water splashing into the glasses, clear and cool, and slightly brown. She handed them, and Hildersham took due note of the bowl of coins on the bench. He threw in a shilling, and then sipped cautiously at salty water that had a bitter tang in it.
