Holiday in Bath

by Laura Matthews

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  In all likelihood Trelenny had no idea what she was talking about, Cranford decided as he stalked away from the house. Far from ever having read the book she talked of, he had never even heard of it. His irritation at her believing him incapable of weaving a tale of his own came close to eclipsing his indignation that she could believe him capable of subter­fuge. She could be the most infuriating girl, with that stub­born little chin defiantly set and those perfectly arched brows haughtily raised. And for all her pert frankness, she had an uncomfortable way of wounding him to the quick. Nothing was more repugnant to Cranford than being com­pared to his father, unless it might be calling him to account for his neglect of his mother and sister. Trelenny, with her imperfect understanding of the situation at Ashwicke Park, was yet able to touch him on the raw at times as few others knew how or dared to do.

  Although Cranford was paying little attention to his direction, so engrossed was he in his thoughts, he soon found himself once again in Milsom Street approaching Duffields. It aggravated him to think that he would have to read the book, probably a fanciful romance of incredible improbability, in order to prove his point. Not once did it occur to him that Trelenny herself had done a certain amount of reading on his account, nor that she had not suggested that he do so in this instance. Oblivious to the fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen who frequented the shop, he paid a subscription fee and inquired for the book with no suspicion of being thwarted in his aim.

  “We haven’t a volume in just now, sir,” the young man informed him politely, “though we do have a different work by the same lady. Would you care to see it?”

  “You don’t have Emma in?” Cranford asked, astonished. “Is it so popular then?”

  “In the last week or so there have been several ladies ask for it. I dare say it’s been moldering on the shelves for some time, but once a book is touted in the Pump Room suddenly everyone wants to have it. The interest quickly dies. Probably I will have it here again next week to be unclaimed for months. Shall I show you another of the lady’s works?”

  “Thank you, no. I was only interested in Emma,” Cran­ford admitted, his annoyance roused but kept well under control as he turned away.

  “Were you not interested in Drucilla, then?” Lady Bab­thorpe murmured. She had seen Cranford enter and had unobtrusively worked her way toward him until she stood at his elbow when he finished speaking with the clerk.

  Her eyes conveyed the same message they had the previous evening, an invitation not unmixed with challenge. Cranford regarded her with faint amusement. “One would have to be blind to make so rash a statement, Lady Bab­thorpe. Does your husband attend you?”

  “My lord would rather be found dead than in a circulat­ing library. He considers it his greatest achievement of the past five years that he has not once opened the cover of a book.” Her nostrils flared with disdain. “My maid accom­panies me.”

  “Perhaps I could have the honor of seeing you home?”

  She pursed her provocative lips thoughtfully. “I had intended to take a stroll in the Sydney Gardens before returning to Laura Place.”

  “You will certainly need my protection then, Lady Babthorpe. Your maid would be insufficient discouragement, I fear, for the young sparks who would be drawn to your flame.”

  Lady Babthorpe smiled appreciatively. “Ah, yes, the labyrinth and the grottoes are too secluded to traverse alone. One needs a trustworthy companion, even in the daytime.”

  “I believe I may be trusted to see to your ladyship’s ease of mind.”

  “Do you think so? I’m sure you are mistaken, Mr. Ashwicke, and I would be very pleased to have your compa­ny.” With an arch look, she took his arm, issued a perempto­ry command to the maid to follow with her books, and allowed Cranford to lead her from the building into Milsom Street. “I was surprised to see you at Mrs. Waplington’s last night. You have scarce shown your face this last year or so.”

  “There has been a great deal to do at Coverly.”

  “And you are escorting that buxom maiden I met you with?”

  “Miss Storwood. Yes, I have brought her and her mother to Bath from Westmorland. Mr. Storwood is an invalid of sorts and Trelenny was anxious to see something of the world.”

  “I would have thought seeing you was quite enough for any young lady,” she retorted.

  “Trelenny finds me a dull stick.”

  Lady Babthorpe gave a tinkling laugh. “In the dining parlor, perhaps, when you are engrossed in your antiquities, but in the boudoir…”

  “You flatter me, Drucilla. I hope Lord Babthorpe made no difficulties for you.”

  “Alfred is a swaggering fool. Had he found us in the bed itself, rather than my parlor, he would have done no more than rant and rave. Come to that, it might have been better if he had. Perhaps an apoplexy would have carried him off.”

  “Goutish men have a way of turning nasty. I wouldn’t push him too far.”

  “Pooh. I can twist him around my little finger, the old lecher. He very nearly died of ecstasy on our wedding night.”

  Uncomfortably Cranford turned the subject. “Have you read this book Emma?”

  “I’ve heard of it, and read some three pages before I threw it down. Very mundane stuff, Cranford. I wouldn’t bother with it.”

  “Are there Bavarian princes and daredevil captains in it?”

  “How should I know? I told you I only read a few pages, but I shouldn’t think so. You’d do better to read one of Fielding’s,” she suggested with a speaking glance.

  “No, it’s Emma I have to read. Have you a copy of it?”

  She made a wry face. “I suppose it is somewhere around. Mr. Kelston bought it for me, though I can’t think why he would think I'd enjoy such stuff.”

  “Mr. Kelston?”

  “One of my admirers here in Bath. I have them every­where I go, you know. This one is a young cub with a spotty face who can’t put two words together in my presence but writes voluminous letters and poetry that’s enough to curdle your insides. I stopped reading them after he compared me to a pineapple.”

  In spite of himself, Cranford laughed. “It’s better than a turnip.”

  A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “I’m not at all sure he didn’t try that metaphor as well, though I was not altogether positive, for he had such a superfluity of flowers and crops in his ‘Ode to Persephone’ that I could never be sure that it was not the meadowlark or the gentian which was supposed to represent me. It might be that the turnips and swedes were only put there for a little earthiness.”

  “At least he was on the right road,” Cranford said approvingly. “There is a decided earthiness to you, Drucilla.”

  “I hope you mean that as a compliment, my dear sir, for I intend to take it as such.”

  “I hate to see all the earthiness bred out of a woman. It leaves only an artificial shell surrounding emptiness. On the other hand—”

  “Don’t tell me,” she protested, lifting an admonitory finger. “Are you not going to get me a chair, Cranford?”

  The thought had not once occurred to him; Trelenny would have spurned the very suggestion of a chair for such a paltry distance. Ever gallant, however, Cranford apologized and motioned to the two men standing nearby with their sedan chair, which had seen better days. Lady Babthorpe wrinkled her nose delicately as she allowed Cranford to hand her in, and made no attempt to converse with him during their progress to the gardens where she arrived in high good humor, taking little notice of her maid’s breathless condition. In fact, it suited her very well. “Sit here, Clothilde, and rest yourself until my return.”

  Although it had been no problem for Cranford to keep up with the hurrying chairmen, the girl was another matter and she nodded her head and murmured, “Yes, my lady.”

  There were tree-lined walks by artificial waterfalls, grot­toes, thatched pavilions, and a sham castle among the attrac­tions of the Gardens, in addition to two iron bridges in
the Chinese style over the canal and a charming rotunda at the far end, but Lady Babthorpe’s goal was the labyrinth. From past experience she knew an ideal spot in it where one might count on no interruptions, since attaining it meant making almost every conceivable wrong turn in the maze. For the weary or discouraged there was a rustic bench to which she soon led her escort, though she was far from weary and quite the opposite of discouraged.

  Cranford was amused by her determination but wary of her intentions. Years ago it had seemed nothing but a lark to be her lover, to cuckold that irascible old man who was her husband. Not that she was any less desirable today than she had been then; the violet eyes were still sleepily provocative, the sensual lips begged to be kissed, and she had a way of tucking her lawn handkerchief down the cunningly low front of her walking dress which made him long to retrieve it. Languidly she tapped the place beside her and eyed him with raised brows.

  When he hesitated, she said, “No one ever strays this far afield, Cranford. Have you lost your nerve? You surprise me. Or perhaps I’ve grown haggard this last year and not noticed." The full red lips pouted invitingly.

  “You know you haven’t, Drucilla.” Unsmiling, he took the seat beside her, calmly draping one leg over the other. “When I was younger I had no nerves, nor any prudence either. I have developed great stores of both these last years. Don’t mistake me, Drucilla. You are as desirable now as you were then and I’d as lief take up where we left off as not, if it weren’t for this confounded sense of responsibility I now labor under.”

  “Hogwash! You haven’t a fiber of mortality in your body, Cranford; I should know.” Her eyes sparked with anger. “Who was it who led young Reedness to every gambling hell in London though he couldn’t for his very soul keep himself sober enough to know what he was doing? Who was the fire-eater who nearly fought a duel over the right to see me, a married lady, home?” Her tone became strident for her coup de grace. “Who was the man who lay in my arms the night he was supposed to be at Ashwicke Park, the night his mother died?”

  Cranford’s face set in cold, hard lines, and a muscle in his cheek twitched. “I didn’t know she was dying.”

  “You had faithfully promised to be there. I saw you write the letter at my escritoire.”

  “I should have been, God help me. Things have been different since then.”

  “Men don’t change, Cranford. That streak of wild aban­donment is there just beneath your polished exterior, waiting for a chance to escape. Do you think I didn’t see the way you looked at me just now? Were you remembering those nights? There was an added thrill to think of Alfred in his room down the hall, snoring loud enough to wake the dead, drunk as a wheelbarrow. Admit it, Cranford. You loved every minute of it.” When he said nothing, merely met her eyes with an indecipherable gaze, she shook her head and said softly, “I don’t blame you for adopting this prudish air, just don’t think you can fool me by it. I know you too well. You’ll go on better in society acting just as you do; no more mothers will protect their daughters from your rakish advances, and no more fathers will protest their sons’ keeping company with you. But you needn’t maintain such virtue in private, my dear. Bath can be very dull for the virtuous, and releasing a little pent-up mischief will only help you maintain your image. I can be very discreet, as you well know.”

  “Yes.” He withdrew his gaze from her face and contem­plated the gravel walk absently for several minutes, almost unaware of her presence. Possibly she was right, but he thought not. His dissipated youth he had seen for some time as a rebellion against his father’s tyranny. Life at Ashwicke Park had not been easy for him and his inability to make the positions of his mother and sister easier had driven him in frustration to London. Not that he had thought of them much when he was there. It was all too easy to forget their uncomfortable plight under that petty dictator when one threw oneself into the frenzy of town life. All too easy to become enmeshed in gambling debts and sordid love affairs, which merely made life more difficult at the Park, but he was not there to suffer for his dissolution. Lady Chessels and Clare were the ones to send him what money they could from their allowances, and beg any necessary additional from his father. Even now he cringed to think of those years, and Lady Babthorpe was inextricably linked in his mind with that past.

  Cranford was realistic enough to acknowledge her sexual appeal for him and yet determined that he was not willing to become involved yet again in such a situation. There was always Kitty in Kendal to satisfy his desires; he wouldn’t be in Bath that long. The wild rage in him which had exhibited itself in those London years was spent, or under control. If Drucilla was right—that it was just under the surface—he did not want her to call it forth.

  He allowed his gaze to alight on her bosom, where the edge of the handkerchief just barely showed and he smiled regretfully. “You’re an enchantress, Drucilla, but I cannot afford to be enchanted just now. I’ve given my word to take care of the two Storwood ladies; and, believe me, the daugh­ter takes a bit of looking after.”

  Flattered by his praise, but disgruntled by his rejection, Lady Babthorpe pouted. “Is she an heiress then? And you mean to have her?”

  “We’re neighbors and here on holiday,” Cranford an­swered noncommittally. “I’ll be expected to chaperone them to assemblies and parties.”

  “I’ll be bound Mr. Wheldrake would willingly stand in for you.”

  Cranford raised a questioning brow. The previous eve­ning had seen him too occupied with old acquaintances to take note of Mrs. Storwood and Mr. Wheldrake.

  “He’s a widower now and methinks with a lively eye for your neighbor’s wife. You could easily leave the escort duties to him.”

  “I doubt that would overly please Mr. Storwood.”

  “But it might please his wife. I know what it’s like to have a sick old man for a husband.

  “Mr. Storwood is young enough to be Lord Babthorpe’s son.” Cranford rose and extended his hand to raise her. When she hesitated, an angry flush on her cheeks, he conciliated her by stooping to raise her hand to his lips and kiss it lingering­ly. “I had no notion I would find you here in Bath, or I might have thought twice before arriving here encumbered. And I haven’t the least desire to make any of your admirers jealous, Drucilla. Do you remember Sir Lowell? He very nearly had me impressed into the Navy!”

  Reluctantly she laughed. “You would have been if you hadn’t spouted Latin at that gang. Oh, Cranford, we had such a lovely time.”

  “Yes.” He ran a finger around the oval of her face. “It’s not an easy life for you, Drucilla, but you chose it with your eyes open.”

  She shrugged a negligent shoulder. “It has its compensa­tions.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” She had risen and he placed her hand on his arm. “I’ll take you home. Shall I get you a chair?”

  “No, it’s only a step. Have you heard what happened to Sir Lowell? He’s the most incomprehensible fellow.”

  They strolled back through the walks in reasonable charity with one another, picking up the maid as they left the gardens and progressed along Great Pultney Street. Lady Babthorpe was not pleased with the result of their interview, but she did not despair of bringing Cranford to heel. Her vanity did not allow for the disenchantment of her former slaves, and in his eyes and his touch she divined a reawakened interest. She enlivened their walk with a bright, sophisticated chatter interspersed with sultry glances and the sensuous play of her fingers on his arm. Amused, but not altogether unaf­fected by her presence, Cranford nearly forgot his mission.

  The laughing, victorious sparkle in her eyes stayed him at her door. “Are you not forgetting something, Cranford?”

  With the promptness of someone recollecting a face thought unfamiliar at first glance he replied, “The novel I wished to borrow.”

  “Wait here, I don’t think my lord would appreciate your coming in: I’ll have Clothilde bring you the volumes.”

  “Thank you, Lady Babthorpe,” he said for the benefit of
the footman who opened the door to her. “I trust the walk has not tired you.”

  “Not at all. I feel quite rejuvenated.” She flashed him a brilliant smile before disappearing into the townhouse.

  Cranford was left to amuse himself on the stoop for an unconscionable period of time, during which he counted two curricles, three phaetons, and a barouche pass by, in addition to nine groups of strollers. He was about to depart, thinking she was toying with him, when the maid at last appeared at the door and delivered several volumes into his hands. “My lady hopes you will enjoy the book, sir,” the girl murmured, swiftly glancing about her, “and most especially the contents of Chapter Three.”

  Irritated by the air of intrigue with which this was delivered, Cranford tucked the books under his arm and replied only, “I shall return the volumes as soon as possi­ble.”

  Being around the corner from Mrs. Waplington’s house, he had a good mind to take Emma directly to Trelenny and insist that she read it herself, but thought better of the plan. He refused, also, to look up at the window above him as he walked away, sure that Drucilla was there expecting him to do precisely that. Devil take the both of them, he thought, chagrined. Women are a plague bent on destroying the sanity of mankind. Cranford absently made the turn into High Street, where he accidentally brushed against a young man coming from the opposite direction. “My apologies, sir.

  “Ashwicke? What the hell has brought you to Bath? When I saw you at Sally’s I thought you were ensconced at the Park for the autumn!” the fellow ejaculated.

  “Tony Bodford! Lord, the place is crawling with familiar faces. What brings you here?”

  “Royal command. The old man sent me down to find him lodgings for the winter, says he couldn’t last it out if it’s like the last few years.” At his companion’s look of concern, he laughed. “Oh, it’s just a whim of his. Really, I’ve not seen him in finer fettle in years. Where are you putting up?”