Charlotte refrained from peering and preening in the round mirror, ‘a keepsake from my dear late sister-in-law’s aunt’ as Mrs Montgomery had informed her guests a night or so previously. She had inspected herself from head to toe before dinner in the looking-glass in Elaine’s room.
‘I wonder how old this mirror is?’ she had observed, reaching out a careful finger to touch the fragile pale gold leaf that adorned the frame. ‘The glass is wavy and difficult to look into.’
‘I know,’ agreed Elaine. ‘When I look at myself in it I feel I’m looking at my drowning soul, in a magical lake.’ She gave a snort of laughter. ‘What a pretentious flight of fancy! Now then …’ She glanced complacently at her own silvery grey satin then looked Charlotte up and down. ‘You look very fine, my dear. That amber silk gives you some colour and suits you very well. What a pity, though, that you can’t wear your lovely black silk shawl with the pink embroidered roses, but the plain black wrap looks very stylish.’
She had turned to speak to her maid at that moment so did not observe the colour she had admired drain suddenly from Charlotte’s face. The pink silk roses would certainly not have gone with the amber of the dress but that was not the only reason Charlotte had hesitated to wear the Chinese shawl that had been her mother’s. She had, in the face of all unreason and when all else was lost, clung to the shawl during her perilous journey across India during the Mutiny and there were more recent, more painful, associations with the shawl that she was not yet ready to confront.
The rest of the company were also arrayed in their finery. Mrs Montgomery was dressed in pale blue, her widowhood presumably of such duration that the late Mr Montgomery no longer merited the gloom of widow’s weeds. Could the diminutive landlady be on the catch for another husband, Charlotte wondered, observing with a cynical eye the manner in which Mrs Montgomery fluttered up at the tall, bluff naval man and the brawny funeral chaser alike? She was also, Charlotte noted, paying attention to the elderly French count, but even as Charlotte peeped under her lashes across the drawing room, the old man directed a swift glance in her own direction, betraying a glimpse of the chilly amusement that he had shared with her before. No, she thought with a sudden rush of gladness, the lady will never catch that particular Frenchman.
Mrs Attwell was, as usual, arrayed in black, but although nothing could enhance her unfortunate figure, her gown was of the finest quality; there was manifestly no lack of funds in that quarter. The clergyman son had so far not come very much within Charlotte’s orbit, for which she had been grateful as his rage seemed permanently aroused, but tonight he seemed to gravitate towards her at every given moment. They had been neighbours at dinner and Mr Attwell had been surprisingly attentive though Charlotte had been glad to make her escape as soon as possible.
‘I inherited my father’s parish,’ he explained, holding his temper in check as he edged closer to her and ignored a beady glare from his maternal parent, as they partook of the excellent beef quenelles being served to everyone except Captain Penbury who sighed over his gruel. ‘There have been Attwell parsons incumbent since the Ark, but I have higher ambitions.’ She realized that his small dark eyes were fixed hotly upon the low neck of her dress and she tightened her lips, hitching her shawl higher to cover her bare skin. Ugh, she managed not to shiver, but he persisted, breathing heavily through his open mouth and essaying several clumsy pleasantries. It was all too plain to see that The Revd Decimus Attwell had decided Charlotte was worthy of his advances. Had he, she wondered, made enquiries of their hostess about her position and fortune? Well, she gave a small shrug as she made her escape, he won’t have discovered much, though I suppose I must present a fairly prosperous appearance. A smile glimmered in her hazel eyes as she recalled her situation less than twelve months since; fleeing across the Indian countryside during the Mutiny, with nothing but what she had managed to beg, borrow or steal.
She wondered if Mr Attwell had indeed decided that young Mrs Richmond was a suitable wife for the bishopric he had hinted to be within his grasp, subject only to the present incumbent’s gross dereliction of duty in refusing still to die when all his doctors had predicted such an outcome some weeks previously. The ginger eyebrows had bristled at the very recollection of this ailing prelate and Charlotte could have sworn she heard the gnashing of his teeth. His temper alone, she reflected, would be enough to put her off matrimony with him, apart from all other considerations. She had noticed that his conversations took the form of a series of ill-natured barks and that most of the time he sat in simmering silence.
The short journey to the Bath Assembly Rooms was accomplished with surprising efficiency with Mrs Montgomery acting the part of whipper-in among those of her guests who chose to walk, while Captain Penbury accompanied Lady Buckwell and Miss Dunwoody in a cab, the captain confiding in his booming whisper that he was ‘suffering from the old trouble amidships, don’t y’know.’ The elder governess cast a languishing glance at him as he spoke and tried to insinuate herself between the captain and Lady Buckwell as they mounted the steps of the cab.
‘Out of the way, madam,’ ordered the elder lady with a peremptory wave of the fan she had assumed for the occasion. ‘You may be old and infirm, as indeed I observe that you are, but I am senior to you in rank and it ill becomes you to jostle a lady of my quality and my years.’
Over the top of the depressing black bonnet whose brim was shaped like an upside down spoon, Charlotte met the flashing twinkle in the old lady’s green eyes. Her answering grin was swiftly disguised as she helped the captain give Melicent Dunwoody, now making plaintive protests of her abject humility, a shove up the step into the interior. God help us all, she panted – noting that either Miss Dunwoody, or perhaps her wooden leg, weighed considerably more than seemed reasonable – if the captain overdoes it and his trouble shifts from amidships to somewhere even more distressing.
As Elaine had prophesied the early evening was glorious indeed, the light glowed golden and heartening and Charlotte felt an insensible lift to her spirits as she strolled along beside her friend, accompanied by the indispensable Jackson who had insisted on attending, ‘just in case.…’ as she had darkly declaimed.
I have so much to be thankful for, Charlotte reminded herself, with an inward smile. Last year I was in despair and sorrow, and in desperate straits, alone and penniless in a foreign country with not a penny to my name and look at me now: I am respectably dressed, I have an income, money in the bank besides, and in my purse too. I have a home, a very impressive and ancient home, and I have a family who love me and are loved by me in return. Probably by the time we return to Hampshire I shall have a house of my own which I will share with the dearest, most surprising old lady I have ever met, who happens by a great stroke of good fortune to be my grandmother-in-law and at the moment I am on holiday here in Bath, a place I dreamed of visiting all my life.
Yes, replied the inner Charlotte, sermonizing is all very well, my girl, but Bath has turned out somewhat different from those daydreams, has it not? You pictured the city to be thronged with characters from your favourite novels: you thought of encountering Captain Wentworth and his quietly elegant wife, and you imagined Mr Knightley … A sigh halted her wandering reverie at that point as Mrs Montgomery hove in sight, bent on her sheepdog duties, so Charlotte gave her a friendly smile in greeting.
‘This is a great treat you have arranged for us, Mrs Montgomery,’ she began, hoping that she was not ladling too much honey on to the bread. ‘I believe you have travelled around England quite extensively. Do you enjoy good music? You must have visited many other grand assembly rooms in your journeyings.’
Her landlady’s response surprised her. With a frowning look of suspicion Mrs Montgomery flapped a small hand, clad in a fingerless mitten, and delved into the bag suspended by a silken cord from her wrist. ‘What’s that? Music? I have no time for such nonsense,’ she said. With this repressive reply she swished forward to the head of the straggle of guests and began to line
them up at the entrance to the Assembly Rooms.
All through dinner that night, all the way up the hill and under the grateful shade of the trees, Charlotte had been aware of something wrong, something different about the party. The relief from tension this morning had been palpable and she had attributed this to the dramatic removal of the inquisitive American gentleman. But now … the atmosphere was no longer light-hearted and the tension had returned in greater strength than before.
All of those guests whom she had observed to be under some duress from the late detective’s intimate and unsettling nods and winks – Mrs Attwell and her son, Captain Penbury, Mr Chettle, M. de Kersac – were wearing frowns and holding themselves a little stiffly as if under a great strain. That too, she concluded, must be the reason for Mrs Montgomery’s strange inattention.
The American detective, Mr Tibbins, might well be dead but his legacy lived on. The guests at Waterloo house had been frightened when he was alive. Now they were frightened again.
CHAPTER 8
Charlotte stood at Elaine’s side and gazed round the lofty, elegant room in awe. ‘Imagine,’ she bent down to whisper in her friend’s ear, ‘my godmother came to assemblies here and loved to tell me all about them. She was in this very room.’ With a little laugh of excitement she bestowed a kiss on Elaine Knightley’s luminous cheek, a rare gesture of affection from Charlotte whose reserve was seldom breached. ‘There, that’s for being so kind as to invite me to accompany you to Bath, my dear. I never dreamed of coming to the Assembly Rooms as well, it’s almost too much!’
‘Go and sit down, Char.’ Elaine smiled and reached up to squeeze the younger woman’s hand; such a long, strong and tanned hand in contrast to her own delicate one. ‘I shall do very well with Lady Buckwell to keep me company over here on the dowagers’ bench and there is Captain Penbury to run my errands. Oh,’ she broke off with a suppressed laugh. ‘I should have said Captain Penbury and Miss Dunwoody to run my errands for me, for here he comes with the lady in tow.’
She looked up in surprise at a choked off exclamation from Charlotte. ‘Why, Char? You surely do not grudge his defection? It may be a little sudden, but he seems very much taken with Finchbourne’s former governess; it seems excessively suitable, do not you think so?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Charlotte sighed. ‘But I had other ideas for him. And for her, too. Oh well.…’
She was amused to see that their hostess for the evening, Mrs Montgomery’s friend, was as cavalier in her treatment of ‘the Waterloo House lodgers’ as Charlotte had anticipated. The lady had unerringly targeted Elaine Knightley as a lady of wealth and breeding, but Mrs Attwell and the two governesses were dismissed with a curt greeting and a sniff of disdain from a nose well suited to such pursuits, as it was immensely long and bony and dangled a small icicle in the shape of a constant drip. Charlotte, in Elaine Knightley’s train, received a more gracious welcome and was even offered two chill, bony fingers, but found herself able to conceal her transports at this honour under a cloak of well-bred indifference.
Mrs Knightley, quite as alive to the situation as Charlotte, stirred the pot by saying: ‘Mrs Richmond was just telling me that her godmother, Lady Margaret, came often to Bath, visiting the Assembly Rooms many times.’
Charlotte’s head swivelled as she gazed in astonishment at her friend, but Mrs Smith had stopped in her tracks, even as she turned in search of bigger fry.
‘Lady Margaret, you say?’ she enquired in a suddenly conciliatory voice.
A barely concealed grin on Elaine’s face alerted Charlotte and she bestowed a chill nod on her hostess for the evening. ‘Oh yes,’ she said carelessly. ‘Lady Margaret Fenton; she spent much of her youth in Bath and was often here with her mother, the countess, about thirty years ago.’
No attempt had been made to introduce the two parties and Charlotte was heartily thankful for this dispensation for Mrs Smith’s guests looked as disagreeable as their hostess, but she did note that the gentlemen from Waterloo House were received considerably more graciously than the ladies, and that they were treated to a smile from a mouth surely more full of teeth than was customary. However, on hearing of Charlotte’s grand connections, Mrs Smith changed tack and made strenuous efforts to engage Charlotte’s interest, all of which were dashed by her victim’s studied indifference.
Unmistakable signs and sounds indicated that the concert was about to begin so Charlotte made a hasty escape while Mrs Montgomery slunk submissively away from their hostess as she and her party were dismissed to their inferior seats, well away from their fellow guests.
As the lights in the main part of the room were dimmed, Charlotte checked on Elaine’s comfort once more and hastened to take her place in the audience, nodding gratefully to little Marianne de Kersac who, given special permission to stay up late, had begged to be allowed to reserve a place beside her for Charlotte, her favourite among the grown-ups.
Less welcome to Charlotte was the presence on her other side of The Revd Decimus Attwell whose hot porcine eyes now seemed to her to brighten whenever they beheld her. It was becoming only too plain to her that since dinner Mr Attwell seemed to have decided that she would indeed grace a bishop’s palace and had begun to take even more particular notice of her. Oh dear, she sighed; why must men always complicate matters so? Besides, even in the unlikely event that I did find Mr Attwell companionable, his mother would never allow him to make advances to me.
Ah well, she was cheered by a sudden recollection: at least Mr Chettle and Captain Penbury seem to have transferred their attentions effortlessly from me to Dora and to Melicent. Alas, I must have been but the plaything of an idle moment and am now cast aside like the proverbial worn glove. Her mouth twisted in a grin. I must not repine, however, as I am pretty confident that I still have admirers in abundance, and how I wish I had not. It was not vain self-delusion she knew, for even as she sat quietly waiting for the opening strains of the concert, she was aware that Armel de Kersac was smiling at her from his seat next to his daughter and there – oh lord, how ironic given her adventurous life story – a police inspector with an interest in music – for clearly visible on the other side of the room, a large, broad man was waving at her with a great deal of pleasure reflected on his genial countenance.
‘Are you quite comfortable, Mrs Richmond?’ It was Mr Attwell, bending his newly solicitous head towards her and speaking in a confidential growl as the audience began to rustle in anticipation as the hands of the clock reached the hour. ‘I could change seats with you if you would prefer?’
There was time only for a smiling shake of her head before an elderly gentleman creaked to his feet, mumbled some inaudible remarks and took his place again as a much younger gentleman bounded on to the stage to introduce the participants.
The first half of the proceedings could only have taken an hour at the most, Charlotte decided, when the master of ceremonies at last raised his hand and announced that there would now be a short intermission for rest and refreshment, but it had seemed far, far longer. Charlotte could only thank the mercies of Providence which had placed her at a safe distance from Elaine Knightley. Had they been seated side by side she considered, one or both of them would surely have disgraced herself with an outburst of uncontrollable laughter.
The young gentleman who was in charge had announced each successive act in such glowing terms that anticipation rose to a peak and the first performer received a storm of applause as she tripped daintily on to the stage.
Charlotte, as she had laughingly told Elaine that morning, had few ladylike accomplishments at all. ‘I cannot sing,’ she had said. ‘I cannot draw, I cannot play the pianoforte or the harp, and I cannot produce delicately beautiful embroideries; sadly the ability to do quantities of mending, to cook a good plain dinner and to shoot a marauding crocodile as I once did, are not appreciated in Polite Society.’
When the young lady on the stage opened her mouth to sing it was soon clearly borne in upon Charlotte that this wa
s a concert of amateur performers. How singular, she thought, raising her eyebrows at the uncertain soprano; I somehow expected the cream of Bath society to stage something a little more professional. She settled down to listen politely, but, as so often happened, a memory of her stepfather flashed into her mind.
The darkened splendour of the room vanished and once more she and her mother made up part of the audience in a dry and scorching little township somewhere north of Brisbane. Boxes and crates were arranged as seating and the performers made their stage on a bluff with the glorious blue of the Pacific behind them. All went well, with Will Glover standing in as master of ceremonies when the original was discovered drunk under a cart; but disaster struck when Will announced a quartet of husky Scotsmen who began to dance the Highland Fling.
Faster and faster they danced, louder and louder rang out the shouts of ‘Och aye!’ and wilder and wilder came the applause from the audience until, with a deafening crack, the stage and the dancers disappeared from sight.
Charlotte came back to the present to discover a pair of youngsters singing a sentimental ballad, accompanied by coy smiles and bashful glances and when the unfortunate youth’s voice cracked on the top note and swooped to a gruff baritone, Charlotte found herself wishing for a present-day landslip to rescue him from his embarrassment. Nobody had suffered serious injury in that ancient calamity; the section of cliff had only slid twenty feet or so and the dancers soon scrambled up, to be plied with strong drink by their sympathetic friends, including Charlotte and her mother, who tended to their sprains and abrasions, though Will had been precious little use, she recalled, as he lay on the ground crowing with helpless laughter.
Death Is the Cure Page 14
