Mr Forster had watched his father steadily as he had told his tale. He was feeling most peculiar. It was almost as if he were sitting in a magical bubble – sitting in, but not a part of – the room they called the study in their rented house in Bath. Robert had never felt anything much for his father before. He had schooled himself to reject him, as he had sensed his father had rejected him. But sitting here with him, in the dark smoky little room at the back of the house, sitting here and listening to his very human, very startling tale – listening to his hopes and disappointments – listening to his pride in him, his son – well, for the first time in his life Mr Forster saw – not a distant, cold, formidable peer of the realm, but a tired and disappointed old man. And for the first time in his life he felt a bond with his father that he knew without a doubt would never be destroyed.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, very slowly. ‘Thank you for doing all those things. And thank you for telling me about it. I had not realised before just how very, very much I – we – all of us – how very much we are living in your debt.’
His father shook his head.
‘Well I certainly did not do it in order to make you unhappy, son,’ he told him. ‘I’d get precious little satisfaction out of that.’
‘And…and so you have no objection to my courting Cecily? I thought you were warning me quite off?’
Here his father looked at him with a wistful, misty smile. He had suddenly transported himself back thirty years or more.
‘Objection? Objection, do you say, Robert? You total mutton head. Why, if only I was free and younger I’d be courting the woman myself.’
Mr Forster stared at him in astonishment for a moment. But he did not stare at him for long. Instead, he returned the smile tenfold, raised his eyes to heaven in a sudden elation, and raised his glass to his father as his lordship consulted his watch.
‘Right,’ said Lord Barnham, briskly. ‘It’s time we were going. Get your greatcoat, Robert. I’ll meet you in the hallway in two minutes’ time.’
It was icy cold again that morning and patches of ice made the flagstones treacherous. For the first time in his life Mr Forster offered his father his arm. They walked on together in silence, two elegant gentlemen, the one, old, frail, ill and bent, the other young, tall, upright, full of health and vitality, taking care with every step they took. They walked together across the bridge, past the abbey, where the wealthy visitors were sporting fashionable furs and thick velvet cloaks, along Westgate Street and on into Milk Street, where scruffy urchins were kicking a random piece of coal into a hundred jagged pieces, their bare little arms and legs turned blue with the piercing cold.
His lordship pushed open the door to the inn and climbed the steep, narrow steps in front of him. A couple of ill-painted doors confronted them, hanging off their hinges. One of them swung lethargically in an icy draught from within. Lord Barnham knocked softly upon it and eased his way inside. His son followed him into the darkness. The stench that immediately assailed his nose – rotting cabbage, human waste, disease - whatever it was – was so pungent that he was almost knocked backwards by it. But his father appeared to notice not. Instead he made his way across the dark room and threw a tattered curtain back from the grimy window. Whether it was the faint light from this, or whether his eyes were starting to accustom themselves to the dullness, Mr Forster gradually began to discern some shapes within the room – the hard shapes of broken furniture – a chest, a broken stool - a softer shape of a mattress upon the floor.
There was apparently someone upon it, for on perceiving the light as it found its way into the room a masculine voice emerged from the vicinity of the mattress demanding, in no uncertain terms, to snuff the blasted candle as it was surely burning his eyes.
‘Nonsense, Simon,’ said Lord Barnham, robustly. ‘It’s not a candle – it’s nothing but a bit of light from the window – and see here – mind your Billingsgate language, for I have brought a visitor to see you. Here – it’s my eldest son, Robert. Robert – come forward and be introduced to someone. I want you to meet a relative of yours - your Great-Uncle, one Mr Simon Forster.’
Chapter 23
Cecily was out of mourning at last. But though she had looked forward to this day for many a long week – the day on which she could don her very finest gowns and jewellery without a hint of melancholy about them at all – now that it had come at last she was feeling oddly low.
Browne tried to cheer her up a little.
‘But you might be quite mistaken about it, my lady,’ she was suggesting as she expertly brushed and dressed her curls. She was getting her ready for the evening ball, though Cecily felt that she would much prefer to stay at home instead. ‘The gentleman may have had a cold – been busy with engagements – perhaps a demanding relative has arrived. Indeed, did you not tell me that Miss Forster has accompanied her aunt back to Box? Perhaps he’s escorted them there? There could be a hundred and one explanations for his disappearance for a while. I daresay you’ll find that there’s nothing at all that’s amiss.’
Cecily nodded, not entirely convinced. She had not revealed the exact nature of her worries to her maid. She had omitted to mention the embrace she had allowed him to give her and, more particularly, she had omitted to mention her sighting of him with a lady on his arm.
‘Maybe you’re right, Browne,’ she conceded. ‘I have not had a chance to talk to him about it. There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for it all. And anyway at least Alfred will be attending me. I have to say, he’s behaving extremely well – no sulks, no reprisals – exactly the same as he always is. Just as I should have expected. I’m so glad he invited me to dance. At least I shall have a partner for the first couple of sets even if I do not dance again all evening.’
Indeed, Alfred proved his value in more ways than one, for he was well known amongst the military gentlemen then in Bath and soon had a string of acquaintance asking him to introduce them to the beautiful girl on his arm. And certainly, in spite of her lack of spirits that evening, Cecily was looking exceedingly beautiful. Her white silk gown with swansdown trimmings suited her neat, slim figure to perfection. Her little cap was set with tiny rubies and trimmed with delicate strips of swansdown which floated and danced like gossamer whenever she moved her head. Her ornaments – a filigree silver necklace with a ruby peardrop pendant, with matching ear-rings and bracelet – were echoed in the ruby-and-silver embroidery on her satin dancing shoes. A tiny ivory fan, trimmed with swansdown, an ermine shawl, long kid gloves and beaded reticule completed the ensemble. Even Mr King, who was not much given to praising the appearance of his niece, had been driven to a few exclamations of startled admiration as she appeared in the drawing room to meet him, and Mrs King, appearing at the last moment in a flurry of scent and rustling satins, had been forced to take recourse to her vinaigrette at the vision of loveliness that had confronted her as she passed fleetingly through the hall.
And certainly all eyes were upon her as she gracefully accepted her cousin’s hand and took her place on the dance floor, though the masculine ones were probably watching her with rather different sensations from the feminine ones – especially the feminine mamas. Not that Cecily was particularly aware of them. Her misery was the one sensation which was overpowering all the others that evening. She would scarcely have noticed had the heir to the throne appeared amongst them and begged her for the honour of a dance.
She spotted Mr Forster towards the end of the second dance. He had entered the ballroom with a party of other gentlemen who were quizzing the dancers on the floor. She was not quite certain that he had immediately spotted her amongst the whirl of feathers and dresses but she had noticed him the moment he appeared.
She hardly dare look when she was next able to turn in his direction but by this time some other dancers had placed themselves behind her and she was no longer fully able to see. She scanned the crowds eagerly as the twists and turns of the dance allowed it – on and on, round and round. The cotillo
n that evening seemed an interminably long affair. But finally, thankfully, they all returned to their starting points and she was free to return to the benches once again.
She was to have no respite for the moment, however, for no sooner had she gained the sanctuary of Mrs King’s bench than she was accosted by one of the officers to whom Alfred had introduced her earlier in the evening, and claimed for the dances that she had apparently promised to him. She had hardly a moment in which to take a breath. Not that her aunt appeared to mind. She had been joined by her good friend Mrs Springfield, magnificent in bejewelled velvet turban and equally bejewelled velvet gown, and was just then employed with her in a spirited debate concerning the merits of a particularly ravishing cashmere shawl which each, separately, had spotted that day in the window of Garner-Broad’s.
Her new acquaintance was a pleasant enough gentleman, with a better command of dancing than of conversing, and as Cecily had no interest whatsoever in saying much in return the dances passed off quite silently and with the minimum of fuss. Luckily they were both quite short ones and led directly into tea. The officer led Cecily back to her party and escorted them into the tea room. Mrs Springfield was soon joined by her son, who had apparently been losing at chess in the games room. He had spotted Captain King – conspicuously important in his dress uniform – in the doorway. On his way towards them he collected Mr Forster in his turn and suddenly – Cecily was not exactly sure quite how – with a sudden thrill of nervous excitement she found that Mr Forster was amongst them, bowing gravely to them, and begging their leave to sit down.
He sat down opposite her and for a moment made employment enough with his knives and forks to avoid directly meeting her eye. He was looking – well, a little unsettled, somehow – a little uncertain, perhaps a little embarrassed. It reflected her own state of mind to perfection. Her partner made a few neutral remarks to the table as a whole, which Mr Forster answered distractedly. His voice seemed a little remote. She could feel her whole body quivering, as though clasped within an ice cold grip. Captain King, escorting his own partner, was at a table nearby. She could hear his somewhat pompous voice droning on unendingly about some manoeuvre or other that his regiment had got itself involved with, and in which he had operated in reserve; Cecily could only be glad that she had missed the opening salvo. It sounded deathly dull. She took a deep breath and cast a cautious glance across the table. Mr Forster was still looking down at his plate. Dash it all. Why had he taken the trouble to come to sit with them if he was not even going to smile?
She decided to take matters into her own hands.
‘You sister is not yet back from Box, Mr Forster? I hope that all is well with her, and your aunt?’
At last he looked at her. He could not ignore a direct question. Nor could he could help but reveal his admiration, in his eye. She detected it at once.
‘She is back, yes, Lady Cecily. She returned home yesterday in time to see my brother off to Portsmouth but finds herself a little indisposed. She caught a slight chill on the journey – nothing of too much concern – but sufficient to retain her at home for a day or two. She is singularly unconcerned about it. She is hoping to attend the theatre on Saturday.’
‘I do hope so, Mr Forster. I’m sorry to hear that she’s unwell. I have missed her sadly whilst she’s been away. In fact,’ (blushing) ‘I have missed seeing you all. I had half wondered whether you had taken yourself off to somewhere, as well as she.’
Mr Forster appeared to settle down a little, though he still looked unusually perturbed.
‘No, I have remained in town, though much engaged with one thing and another. I…I have been much occupied with my father these past few days.’
‘Oh. I’m pleased to hear it. I remember you saying that you wished to get more involved.’
‘Yes. He has started to take me into his confidence at last. I am quite delighted by it. It is proving just as worthwhile as you suggested it might be.’
Cecily nodded at him in a way that she hoped might seem encouraging.
‘And I see that you now have a gentleman in your party?’
‘Do we…? Oh,’ (blushing once again), ‘oh, you mean Alfred – my cousin, Mr Forster. Captain King. Yes. He has been with us for a number of days now. He is come to Bath on leave for a short while. He is enjoying the change, I believe.’
‘And do you plan to dance with him again? Only I was hoping – wondering - whether you would do me the honour of standing up with me?’
At last Cecily felt that she could smile again, and she did so, very broadly, as she assured him that she would. She had reserved the next two dances for another officer, she told him, but she would be free to oblige him for the next two dances after that.
She could feel her heart fluttering most peculiarly as he made his way towards her at the requisite time, bowing elegantly and politely to his acquaintance on the way. He was looking so very elegant in his corbeau coat, white Marcella waistcoat, and pale cream kerseymere breeches - so very handsome, and so very – well, she had to admit it to herself, though she berated herself soundly for thinking it – so very, very alluring.
‘My sister has resorted to reading whilst stuck indoors, my lady,’ he began, having claimed her at last and taken his place in the set. She could feel the sensation of his fingers around hers even now, though he was standing a distance away. It really felt most peculiarly exciting. ‘She has been enjoying ‘The Lady of the Lake’. The author is new to her, I believe. She is not normally a great reader – not of poetry, at any event, though she enjoys more factual volumes. I cannot say that I blame her. I read a few lines with her this morning. They sounded bombastic and decidedly pompous to me. She actually seemed to be enjoying them. It shows how very poorly she must be!’
Cecily had to smile.
‘Oh dear, Mr Forster – you are a very harsh judge indeed. I feel persuaded that you will find very few people to agree with you – although I am not a great one for poetry, either. I enjoyed reading novels when I was younger, though my taste was certainly not superior – gothic horror novels formed a major part of my diet, I remember – the gruesomer the better. I have grown quite out of the genre now, I’m delighted to report, though I regret that despite religiously scouring the shelves of every circulating library with which I hold a subscription, nothing has really interested me sufficiently to take their place since then. I tend to stick to travel books nowadays. I am reading Dr Clarke’s ‘Travels’ at the moment, though I am finding them somewhat dull.’
‘Yes. It is probably quite difficult for a young lady to find just what she enjoys. I am a very great reader, though I expect you would find my selections a little heavy. I do not read for enjoyment, you understand. It is purely to exercise my mind. But I mention the topic not merely for something to talk about. My sister asked me particularly to mention it, as she is hoping that you will have the kindness to visit her and read with her for an hour or two tomorrow – and then, perhaps, stay to family dinner? She assures me that she is perfectly safe to be with – though I should not warrant your protection from infection for myself. She is overly optimistic on occasions.’
‘Of course – I should be more than delighted to visit her. It can be most miserable, stuck indoors on one’s own. And you need not worry that I shall blame you if I catch the infection. Unlike my aunt, who will dose herself up at the slightest hint of contagion, I am a great believer that one is either predisposed to catch a cold or not. It hardly matters where it comes from.’
Mr Forster allowed himself a little smile, named the time when his sister would expect her, and allowed the dance to take him from her for a moment.
‘And shall we have the honour of your company as well tomorrow, Mr Forster?’ enquired Cecily, innocently, once they were back together once again. ‘Or do you have more pressing engagements to detain you?’
Mr Forster looked brighter than he had done for the whole of the evening so far.
‘I think – I hope – that is, I defini
tely intend to be there if I am able,’ he assured her, a little consciously. ‘And if you are but able to search out something we can all enjoy I might even be prevailed upon to read it aloud to you as well.’
‘Then we must rise to the challenge, sir. I have a feeling that I would enjoy to hear you read.’
Mr Forster’s two dances marking the conclusion to the evening he was allowed the privilege of escorting Cecily to her chair for the journey home to Pulteney Street. It was probably a good thing that he did so. Cecily’s head was swimming so delightfully, and her heart was fluttering so insistently, that she might well have found it quite impossible to get there on her own. Mrs King followed close by, with her husband, who had managed to lose a few guineas on the evening’s games and was thence in a not-too-happy mood. He watched narrowly as his niece was escorted to the chair. The sight did not appear to please him very much.
‘So he’s turned up again like the bad penny that he is,’ he muttered to his wife. ‘Bother the wretched fellow. I had hoped that he had conjured himself quite away.’
Chapter 24
Despite the uncertainty which he had expressed, Mr Forster was so far able to make himself available for the following afternoon that he managed accidentally to fall in with Cecily as she walked down Great Pulteney Street on her way to Sydney Place, and provide her with his arm. She was sporting a bonnet with a particularly giant brim. Cecily was rather glad of it. It provided the perfect opportunity for screening her blushes quite from anyone’s view.
Even better, the uncertain Bath weather took an unexpected turn for the worse before they had walked a full fifty yards from the house, enabling Mr Forster to open his umbrella and direct it gallantly above her head. Politeness dictated that she should assure him at least a reasonable share of its protection, and this in turn provided them with a reason to walk even more closely together. Cecily felt delightfully aware of him as he strode on beside her, firm and confident, his arm strong and comforting, linking with her own. The patter of the rain on the umbrella gave its protection a sense of added security as they splashed their way delicately along the slippery flags.
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