“I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.”
Sophie felt that if she were ever to marry she would hope for a clergyman like this to officiate, as she had sat through very long and awkward pauses at other weddings, where the participants (and witnesses) had been the target of accusing stares before the vicar proceeded with the ceremony, and the words “dreadful day of judgment” had been spoken in highly significant tones. But this vicar passed over that part of the reading as quickly and lightly as possible, barely pausing for a reply, slowing again when he asked Lord Fitzwalter if he would have Lucy “to thy wedded wife.” He even appeared, wonder of wonders, to be happy for the bride and groom.
Sophie, as delighted as she was for Lucy and Lord Fitzwalter, had one niggling source of discontent. Cecilia was one of the attendants, along with Sir Edmund, and Sophie found the sight of them at the altar somewhat hard to bear, even though the bride and groom stood between them. She told herself that if Sir Edmund were to court Cecilia she should rid herself of her silly infatuation and be pleased for them both, but the thought of having to be an eyewitness to every aspect of the affair, as well as having to serve as Cecilia’s confidant, was more than a little daunting. She greatly wished that Sir Edmund would find some other young lady to pursue, and quickly, and that Cecilia would find it in her heart to accept the more than admirable Mr. Hartwell.
Mr. Hartwell was present as well, peering soulfully at Cecilia, who deserved every one of his admiring glances, as she was looking quite pretty, while still doing her very best to fulfill her first duty as bridesmaid: not to eclipse the bride in beauty.
There was a wedding breakfast served at Lord Fitzwalter’s town house after the ceremony, and Sophie had been invited to it as well. There she was able to become further acquainted with Mr. Hartwell, to find him even more obliging than she had previously thought him, and to wonder that Cecilia did not marry him straightaway before some other lady took advantage of her dillydallying.
Mr. Hartwell had learned from Cecilia that she, Mrs. Foster, and Sophie were to repair to Bath for some months and he had immediately requested the privilege of assisting them with their travel arrangements, putting his own carriage at their disposal and providing them with his escort.
“For I, too, find the thought of an excursion to Bath at this time of year quite a refreshing prospect,” he told Sophie, though he looked a little sheepish as he said this, and Sophie had no doubt he’d think an excursion to Tasmania a refreshing prospect if that’s where Cecilia were headed.
Sophie had given herself a stern lecture between the church and the wedding banquet and convinced herself that she had no interest in Sir Edmund at all beyond the natural concern one would have for the dear friend of a friend. She even smiled beguilingly at an uncle of Lucy’s, but after he sought her out she soon found herself regretting the impulse. Mr. Barrett was a member of the Jockey Club with a tidy bit of property in Leicester, and Sophie found herself learning far more than she’d ever desired to know about the Newmarket races, the Atherstone Hunt, and a Squire Osbaldeston, who was apparently the “best dashed cricketer and master of the hunt to ever be born of woman.” (Since Sophie knew of no other way for a man to be born, she assumed this meant he was quite literally the best.)
So it was difficult for her to hide her relief when Sir Edmund approached them, and in consequence she greeted him far more warmly than she’d intended. Mr. Barrett, presented with evidence that Sophie was very liberal with her smiles and thus no better than a coquette, took himself off and found a fellow sportsman (in the library of all places) who gave him a good tip on the July races.
“I had no idea you were a devotee of equestrian sports,” Sir Edmund said to Sophie, once Mr. Barrett was out of earshot.
“I am not; and have learned quite enough today to satisfy any ignorance I had on the subject.”
“So you would not be interested in a description of the chestnut I picked up at Tattersall’s; a prime bit of blood and bone, got by Blackleg out of Sprightly? I plan to run him at Newmarket.”
“Do you, indeed?” Sophie asked, curious about this insight into his personality. She had not thought him one of the Corinthian set.
“I do, actually, but we do not have to discuss it. I’d prefer to hear about your plan to remove to Bath.”
Sophie was a little embarrassed at this reminder, thinking he must believe her to be pursuing him there, but she could detect nothing satirical or knowing in his direct and friendly gaze. “Cecilia told you, I suppose,” she finally said.
“Yes, and I am quite happy that you took me up on my suggestion. She says Mr. Hartwell is helping to arrange matters.”
They both looked across the room to where Cecilia stood talking to Mr. Hartwell. “Yes,” Sophie said. “Mr. Hartwell has been very obliging indeed.”
“I imagine it is to be a match between them?” Sir Edmund asked, lowering his voice.
Sophie looked up at him, alarmed. “Oh, no; matters have not yet reached that stage. It is premature to speak of it.” She wondered at her eagerness to proclaim Cecilia available and unattached, but she felt it would be unfair somehow to eliminate her as a rival based on a false belief, and Sophie refused to stoop so low.
“But it would be a very good match, and there appears to be genuine affection between them, on his side at least. I wonder that you do not use your talents to promote it,” Sir Edmund said, his brow furrowed in confusion at her negative reaction.
“I could not interfere in my cousin’s affairs. I must allow her to make her own decisions.”
Sir Edmund shook his head. “I shall never understand you, Miss Lattimore. Here we are, at the wedding celebration of a match you instigated, and yet you appear to have an aversion to making matches.”
“It is not an aversion, it is just . . . a profound respect, I suppose, for the institution. You were at the ceremony today. It is a wonder that any mortal enters the bonds of matrimony when it is announced at the outset that it is not to be taken ‘unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.’ ”
“I think you left out a portion,” Sir Edmund said, with a wicked twinkle in his eye. And Sophie, who had knowingly omitted the part about how marriage should not be undertaken to “satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites,” had a difficult time keeping a straight countenance and could not prevent a blush from warming her cheeks.
There was a slight pause and then they both began laughing.
“Trust the church to expound on matters not to be mentioned in polite society,” Sir Edmund said.
“And to ascribe the basest of motives to human behavior,” Sophie added.
Sir Edmund opened his mouth to reply, stopped himself, and merely shrugged. Sophie was left to wonder if he disapproved of her implied criticism of the church, or if he disagreed that such motives for marriage were base. She could not think too deeply on the second supposition and remain comfortable in his presence, so she was relieved when he spoke again.
“To return to the subject of your trip to Bath, have you found a house to let?”
“We did, with Mr. Hartwell’s help. It is on Rivers Street,” she said.
“An excellent address. Mr. Hartwell is to be commended. May I call on you there?”
Sophie was surprised but attempted to conceal it by answering calmly: “Yes, of course. We’d be very pleased to receive you.”
4
The remove to Bath took place as smoothly as could be desired. (Which is to say, Sophie, Cecilia, and Mr. Hartwell were not discomposed in the least, but Mrs. Foster found a thousand things to trouble her.) Sophie felt more strongly than ever that Cecilia would be a fool to reject so good-natured and
accommodating a young gentleman as Mr. Hartwell, who was also pleasant in appearance and quite sensible. But she realized those qualities did not rate very highly to a young lady of eight-and-ten.
Sophie felt that if Mr. Hartwell had not appeared at the very start of Cecilia’s come-out and so quickly made obvious his admiration for her, things would have transpired very differently. Little did Cecilia know—when her knowledge of gentlemen was so scant—that to win the favor of a gentleman like Mr. Hartwell was quite an achievement. It was Sophie’s opinion that because it had come so early Cecilia tended to undervalue his regard and wonder if she could do better. Sophie could understand her thinking but could not approve of it. She felt very uncomfortable that Mr. Hartwell was taking on many of the duties of a husband with little assurance that he would ever achieve that position, and with only fleeting and faint smiles from Cecilia as a reward. In consequence, Sophie found herself smiling at Mr. Hartwell more than ever.
But then, Sophie found herself with a smile on her face most of the time, these days. No place she’d ever seen delighted her more than Bath (though it was true she had not seen many places). Still, she felt even if she were to one day visit Paris or Rome, or some other grand city, Bath would still hold a special place in her heart. She infinitely preferred living there to living in London.
Sophie had purchased a copy of The Bath Guide at a local bookshop, and while she had no doubt its author was somewhat biased, especially when asserting Bath to be “one of the most agreeable, as well as one of the most polite places in the kingdom,” she did concur that a lot of its charm was “owing to the elegance of its buildings, which are superior to any other city in England.” In the previous century, two architects, a father and son both named John Wood, designed and constructed buildings of a warm, honey-colored stone that was now ubiquitous in Bath. Sophie’s favorites among their designs were the Circus and the Royal Crescent, rows of narrow town houses that were curved into circular shapes and mimicked the Colosseum in Rome, but turned inside out.
Then there were the hot springs which gave Bath its name. Legend had it that they were initially discovered in the ninth century before Christ by a leprous prince named Bladud. Bladud had been shunned at court because of his loathsome disease and had become a lowly swineherd. But this proved to be his salvation, as the pigs, who had caught his leprosy, rolled in the warm mud of the hot springs near Bath and were cured. This led Bladud to also bathe in the miraculous waters, which cured him of his disease and enabled him to be restored to the throne. Sophie was not surprised, however, to find that her trusty guidebook labeled this legend “a fabulous and absurd tale.”
However, a man who did live up to the legend was Richard “Beau” Nash, the dandy who had reigned supreme over Bath society as master of ceremonies in the previous century. He was revered in Bath, and a statue of him peered condescendingly from a niche above the Pump Room at the people who flocked to drink the famous waters. It was a mystery to Sophie why the man had allowed so many artists to paint his portrait and sculpt his figure when the likenesses were not at all flattering, and displayed the bags under his eyes and the unhealthy color of his complexion, as well as his multiple chins, in graphic detail. Sophie would have thought that these would be the worst possible advertisements for the supposed health benefits of Bath, as the famous Beau appeared a very unhealthy specimen indeed.
The Pump Room itself, though, was definitely one of Bath’s aesthetic treasures, despite Beau Nash’s likeness being displayed prominently on its walls. Situated adjacent to the King’s Bath, it had been rebuilt in 1796 to replace a smaller building, and every morning it filled with hundreds of people of all ages (but mostly the elderly) who had come to drink the medicinal waters that were pumped from the hot springs into a marble urn in an enclosure behind a bar. However, it was also the place to see and be seen, and ladies and gentlemen would stroll up and down the brightly lit room with its many windows and high ceilings suspended above Corinthian columns, chattering loudly over the noise of the orchestra.
And then there were the assembly rooms, the Abbey Church, Sydney Gardens, and the natural beauty of the hills that surrounded Bath and the river that flowed through it. Truly, Sophie found much to feed her soul and spirit; far more than she’d found cooped up in her aunt’s London town house while starved of companionship for six lonely years. And now that she was free, both physically and spiritually, she was determined to enjoy every minute of her stay.
* * *
Cecilia, too, was enjoying Bath (though she had no interest in reading a boring book about its history). And for the first time since Sophie had come to live with them she realized the felicity of having a close female relation that one could call on at almost any time to accompany one to the shops, or the circulating library, or on a walk through the Royal Crescent at sunset, when the curved row of town houses gleamed gold. So she couldn’t account for the times when she resented Sophie’s presence. It seemed to happen most frequently when Mr. Hartwell or someone else was congratulating her on possessing such a relation. Cecilia knew Sophie was a treasure (even though she had only belatedly come to that realization), so why would she find it provoking to have others point out such a thing to her?
She surely couldn’t be jealous of her cousin, could she? It was rather disheartening to find that she could. Though she wasn’t sure whether she even wanted Mr. Hartwell for herself, she was very sure she did not want anyone else having him. (Not that there was any danger of Sophie stealing Mr. Hartwell’s regard away from her, but Cecilia had noticed Sophie’s smiles and was annoyed by them.) And she had also observed at Lucy’s wedding banquet that Sir Edmund had sought Sophie out far more frequently than he had her. Cecilia could no longer deceive herself that he did so because he was interested in her, as he had never yet invited Cecilia to drive or even asked to call on her, as he had Sophie.
So while Cecilia and Sophie both felt that they had achieved an intimacy that had been lacking in their earlier relationship, they were also conscious of some restraint. They found, though, that by ceasing to speak of Mr. Hartwell or Sir Edmund they were able to maintain cordial relations. And by tacit agreement they both kept Mrs. Foster in the dark about who was enjoying more of Sir Edmund’s attentions.
* * *
Mrs. Foster, now that the troublesome journey was behind her, was also enjoying herself. She had made an appearance in the Pump Room that morning with the two younger ladies at her side and had discovered some acquaintances from her youth. Most were older married ladies or widows, like herself, who could only offer up boring—and most likely spurious—tales of their various offspring’s talents and attractions. Mrs. Foster, however, was able to recount the only slightly exaggerated story of how her niece had engineered the match of the season between Lucy Barrett, a young lady of no more than modest fortune and beauty, and the wealthy and eligible Lord Fitzwalter, while snatching him from under the very nose of the acknowledged toast of the season.
It was probably good that Sophie and Cecilia had left to explore the room together and could not hear this narration, as they would have found it embarrassing, both by its overemphasis of Sophie’s talents and its belittling of Lucy’s virtues. However, even if the tale was poorly told, it was the most interest that Mrs. Foster had excited in recent memory and, as such, highly satisfying to her. Also satisfying were the accolades she received for her generous acceptance of a “penniless relation” into her home and her gracious treatment of such a one. This assumption by her peers caused no guilt in Mrs. Foster’s breast for her prior less than generous treatment of Sophie but did firm her resolve to give no one reason to believe it untrue. Therefore, Sophie found herself the grateful recipient of various gifts of clothing from her aunt and, even better, much kinder treatment.
So it was that Mrs. Foster, no longer using Sophie as an unpaid chaperone, accompanied both her niece and her daughter to the assembly rooms that evening, determined that her niece would enjoy
the gentlemen’s attentions as much as any young debutante. Though not quite as much as her own daughter, of course.
* * *
If Mr. Hartwell had taken it into his head to kiss his beloved’s lips or even her hand that evening, he might have found himself affianced before the end of the night. Cecilia, while not a toast like Priscilla Hammond, was accustomed to having her card full within minutes of arriving in a London ballroom. However, here in Bath she was acquainted with no gentleman but Mr. Hartwell. So at the start of the first set, when Cecilia thought that she was about to have the humiliating experience of sitting out a dance and Mr. Hartwell had suddenly materialized at her side, he had never appeared so prepossessing in her eyes.
While Mr. Hartwell was not aware of the warmer feelings he’d kindled in Cecilia’s breast, he was conscious of the fact that she’d never smiled so broadly or meaningfully at him, even seeking his gaze as he handed her off during the course of the dance.
Sophie, observing the two, was happy to see that Cecilia appeared to be appreciating Mr. Hartwell’s attentions and hoped it would last. But then she caught a glimpse of someone familiar, and any thoughts of Cecilia and her suitor fled her mind completely.
At first she thought she was imagining it was him. It had been ten years, after all, and he had aged somewhat. Unfortunately, the touch of gray in his sun-streaked hair, which was still the warm shades of autumn leaves, did not detract from his appearance one bit, nor did the small wrinkles at the corners of his very blue eyes. Though they certainly should, Sophie thought, annoyed. Something should have rendered him less attractive to her, and if nothing in his appearance did so, at least the memory of how he’d hurt her should make him repellent in her eyes. Unfortunately, her eyes were not cooperating at all. Or perhaps it was her heart? What was it that caused that strange, stirring emotional and physical response to the attributes of some and not others? Why was it that some men who possessed a figure and features that were just as objectively well formed caused not a jolt of feeling, while others, like Sir Edmund and this man, affected her so strongly?
Miss Lattimore's Letter Page 4
