Lord Courtney gave his arm to Cecilia, who accepted it with a coquettish look, and Sophie fell into step beside Lady Mary. Before Sophie could venture on to a topic of conversation, Lady Mary began speaking endlessly without pausing for a reply, leaving Sophie with little to do other than suppress the yawn she could feel building inside her.
But then Sophie chided herself for being ungenerous. Lady Mary was probably conscious of her mother’s rudeness and only sought to divert attention from it. It had to be very difficult to be the daughter of such a woman. So Sophie redoubled her efforts to pay attention to her companion’s speech, which was now centered on the difficulty of finding reliable chairmen to transport her mother’s custom-designed sedan chair. Sophie had to concentrate very intensely, as Lady Mary had a soft voice, and by this time of day the crowds had greatly increased, as had their volume, and the band was diligently doing its best to compete with them, the trumpet player in particular. Sophie hoped that the famous waters had properties that would alleviate any headache she had by the time she reached them.
They finally made it to the pump, and as they waited for the attendant to hand them a glass of water Sophie became conscious of someone’s eyes upon her. Looking around, she saw Sir Edmund barely ten feet away, and her face lit up in response.
Sir Edmund was frowning slightly, but when he saw her pleased reaction, his expression cleared and he came forward, bowing to her. He bowed to Lady Mary as well, who smiled and murmured a greeting, but as the attendant handed Lady Mary her glass of water almost immediately after this interaction, there was no opportunity for further speech. While Lady Mary was distracted, Sophie seized the opportunity to step away from her and closer to Sir Edmund. As Sophie’s place was immediately taken by an acquaintance of Lady Mary, who began speaking with her, Sophie congratulated herself that she would not even be missed.
She wondered if Sir Edmund thought she hadn’t wished to speak to him at the assembly the previous evening; his expression when he had seen her there seemed much cooler than usual (and she was sure, after much reflection during a wakeful night, that he had seen her) and her disappointment at giving him a mistaken impression was almost as great as her agitation at seeing Mr. Maitland again after so many years. So she was determined to make Sir Edmund understand she remained his friend. If that, indeed, was what he intended her to be.
“Sir Edmund! I saw you at the assembly last night but I had no opportunity to speak to you—”
“Yes, you were engaged at the time. In a dance, I mean,” he said, a little jerkily. He seemed as nervous and uncomfortable as she.
“Oh, yes. I was. Mr. Maitland is an old—that is, he was a friend of my father’s. From my youth.”
“Your youth, Miss Lattimore?” he asked, his expression relaxing a little. “Perhaps you mean your childhood. You are obviously still in your youth.”
He used this as an excuse to examine her face closely, and she lowered her eyes to avoid looking into his own, as she found it difficult to think when she did so. “I am eight-and-twenty,” she said, as if contradicting his assumption that she was young, though she could not understand why she did so. She wondered, not for the first time, why she automatically thwarted any flirtatious overtures. It was almost as if she didn’t feel she was worthy of such attention.
“Elderly, indeed. Just two years younger than my advanced age,” he said, and she was pleased to finally learn how old he was.
“Perhaps we should both drink the water,” Sophie suggested playfully. “It is reputed to be a fountain of youth.”
They had been walking as they talked and had wandered a good distance away from the pump, a realization Sir Edmund came to after Sophie’s comment. “My apologies, Miss Lattimore, I prevented you from taking the waters and have separated you from your companions. Shall I return you to them?”
He began peering over the crowd, and Sophie assumed he was searching for Lady Mary or the Fosters.
“Oh, no! Please, I’d much rather remain with you,” she said, far more enthusiastically than was perhaps wise. She could feel her cheeks growing warm, and hurriedly changed the subject. “Are you to stay in Bath, Sir Edmund? Or are you here for a short visit?”
“My plans are not fixed as of yet,” he said, in a tone and with a glance at her that suggested she might have a bearing on them. Or so she hoped. But then she recalled his purpose in being there was to meet prospective brides and told herself yet again that she must view him as a friend and nothing more.
“Have you been able to widen your circle of female acquaintances since coming to Bath?” Sophie asked.
“I was introduced to Lady Smallpeace and Lady Mary and danced with Miss Foster. You were engaged, if you recall.”
“But you are already acquainted with me and my cousin. You are supposed to look about you for other eligible ladies.”
“If you are finally offering to act as a matchmaker for me, I believe it is your job to find the lady,” Sir Edmund said, but he was obviously joking.
“I see you will never bring the thing off if left to your own devices. I may have no choice but to take a hand in the matter.” Sophie briefly scanned the room and saw a group of young ladies peering interestedly in Sir Edmund’s direction while whispering behind their fans and giggling. “I think a mature lady would be a better choice, not a girl who has only just left the schoolroom and put up her hair. Do you have any objection to a widow?” Sophie asked.
“Such as Lady Smallpeace, perchance?”
Sophie laughed. “I am not certain she would entertain your suit, Sir Edmund. No, it should be someone who is neither a child nor a sixty-year-old dowager.”
“In other words, someone about your age,” he said, and Sophie looked suspiciously at him, wondering if she was meant to read anything into his remark. His face gave nothing away, however, and before she could respond she heard her name being called.
Sophie turned to find Mr. Maitland approaching, a warm expression on his face. “Miss Lattimore, how delightful to see you again.”
“Good morning, Mr. Maitland,” Sophie said, before turning to Sir Edmund, who was standing stiffly by her side. “Sir Edmund, may I present Mr. Maitland?”
The two gentlemen nodded at each other, Mr. Maitland smiling broadly, Sir Edmund’s expression much more restrained.
“I believe we have met before, have we not, Sir Edmund?” Mr. Maitland asked.
“Possibly, though I am sorry to say I do not recall the occasion.”
“Perhaps it is my memory that is at fault,” Mr. Maitland said, as cordial as ever.
The three stood in silence for a moment, a silence that seemed fraught with tension, before Sir Edmund spoke. “If you will excuse us, Mr. Maitland, I was just about to escort Miss Lattimore to the pump.”
“But I was headed that way as well! I rarely go a day without partaking of the waters. So very salubrious,” Mr. Maitland said. “Shall we go together?”
Mr. Maitland held out his arm to Sophie, and with a glance at Sir Edmund, she put her hand on Mr. Maitland’s arm, feeling she had no other choice. She wondered if Sir Edmund would offer his arm as well, but it seemed she was not to enjoy the distinction of having the two handsomest men in the room on each arm. Sir Edmund merely bowed and said, “Since you already have an escort, Miss Lattimore, I beg you to excuse me. Good day.”
Sophie was disappointed at Sir Edmund’s departure, but found she was not given much time to regret his absence, as Mr. Maitland was particularly talkative and charming and seemed determined to keep her well entertained.
* * *
Cecilia was not finding her escort nearly as entertaining. They had reached the pump long before Sophie, where Lord Courtney had gallantly retrieved a glass for Cecilia but refused to drink any himself.
“Don’t tell my aunt, but I loathe the stuff. Tastes like it’s been warming in a puddle by the side of the road.”
/> Since he said this just as Cecilia had taken her first sip, she suddenly found it very difficult to swallow and wished he’d kept his observations to himself. But she was also conscious of the fact that Lord Courtney was the wealthiest, highest-ranking gentleman in the room, and that other young ladies were casting envious glances her way. Even without her mother’s explicit instructions, Cecilia recognized that Lord Courtney was the preeminent matrimonial prize of her generation and that it behooved her to make the most of this opportunity.
But he certainly wasn’t making it easy for her.
“I wonder if it’s the pigs that cause the funny smell,” he mused aloud.
“The pigs?” Cecilia echoed.
“You must have heard; some diseased nobleman’s swine nosed out the springs. In the last century. May have been King George’s pigs. Daresay inhaling too much of the odor is what led to his mental, uh, incapacitation,” Lord Courtney said, tapping the side of his forehead with his finger. “By Jove, I should tell my great-aunt so. So much for masculine vitality, what?” he asked, laughing aloud at his genius in disproving Lady Smallpeace’s claim.
Cecilia was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an intellectual, but even she recognized that Lord Courtney’s statement was erroneous. She remembered a story about a leprous prince and his pigs but, though she had only the foggiest knowledge of the history of the Britons, knew that the discovery had occurred a thousand years ago at least, and probably more than two thousand. It definitely had not occurred during the life span of their current mad king. And when Lord Courtney pointed to the statue of Beau Nash that hovered in a niche above them and said: “That’s King George there. Has a look of the prince regent about him, doesn’t he?” it was all Cecilia could do not to spit her water in his face.
So when Mr. Hartwell turned up at that very moment, he once again had the appearance of a savior in her eyes. Cecilia immediately presented him to Lord Courtney, pleased to have an excuse to change the subject before she lost her composure completely.
The two gentlemen exchanged pleasantries and Cecilia was able to bring herself under control. But seeing the two men side by side, Cecilia realized that she had been wont to grossly undervalue Mr. Hartwell’s attractions. Certainly he was not as darkly handsome as Sir Edmund, nor quite as tall, but he had a vigorous, healthy appearance, and he was more muscular than Lord Courtney, who, if not a viscount, would have been rightly labeled a spindleshanks.
But then Cecilia immediately chided herself for even noticing the gentlemen’s legs. Firstly, it was vastly improper, and secondly, it had absolutely no bearing on the very serious business of choosing a husband.
6
Sophie and Mr. Maitland, having drunk their water with only minimal grimacing, were making their way across the room to Mrs. Foster when Mr. Maitland stopped in the middle of a sentence, his attention arrested by something or someone. Sophie, following the direction of his gaze, was surprised to see Priscilla Beswick, née Hammond, enter the room.
“What a handsome creature,” Mr. Maitland murmured, and Sophie cast him a look of annoyance.
“I can introduce you, if you’d like,” Sophie said.
It occurred to Mr. Maitland that Sophie was somewhat affronted. “What interest do I have in other ladies when you are here, Sophie?” he said huskily, treating her to one of those smoldering glances he’d perfected.
“That is an intriguing question,” Sophie replied. “One that I’ve wondered myself.”
Mr. Maitland was momentarily bereft of speech, and Sophie was glad of it. She’d noticed he’d fallen back into the habit of using her Christian name, and this tendency and his seductive tone had again roused her defenses. If a different gentleman had commented on the appearance of another woman in her presence, it would not have bothered her; she knew she could not compete with Priscilla Beswick’s physical attractions and was not jealous of her incredible beauty. It would be dishonest if a man pretended not to notice. But when Mr. Maitland praised Priscilla, and so ardently, it could only remind Sophie of his past betrayal and make her wonder if he had really changed. Was he again playing some cruel game with her?
While this exchange was occurring, Priscilla had seen Sophie and had immediately approached her. “Miss Lattimore,” she said, inclining her head.
“Mrs. Beswick, how do you do?” Sophie asked, and upon hearing she was well, introduced Mr. Maitland.
“Your devoted servant, Mrs. Beswick,” Maitland said, and Sophie restrained herself from rolling her eyes. It was a harmless platitude, it was true, but he didn’t have to say it quite so enthusiastically.
Priscilla was evidently as impressed by Mr. Maitland as he was by her and flashed him a brilliant smile.
“Is Mr. Beswick in Bath with you?” Sophie said, as she thought Priscilla might need to be reminded she was already married.
“Charles?” Priscilla asked, as if there were a different Mr. Beswick Sophie might be referring to. “No, he is not with me. He is at home, in Devon. He rarely travels. He vastly prefers the country over town,” she said in a puzzled tone, as if it were an incomprehensible preference.
“If he is a man of good sense, then he’d surely prefer to be wherever his charming lady is,” Maitland said, and Sophie did roll her eyes, just a little, but was confident the other two would not notice. And they did not, as they were fully occupied in looking at each other. Sophie had to admit they made an engaging tableau, as they were two of the handsomest representations of their sex she’d ever seen and watching them together was like viewing the subjects of a Boucher or Fragonard painting brought to life.
“It is good to see you, Mrs. Beswick, but it appears as if my party is preparing to go,” Sophie said, nodding toward where Mrs. Foster and Cecilia stood waiting. “I must take my leave of you. I hope to see you again while you’re in Bath.”
“But, Miss Lattimore, I insist upon us meeting again, so you need not hope in vain,” Priscilla said. “I will call on you. Where are you staying?”
Sophie gave her the address, and Priscilla replied that she had taken lodgings very near to Sophie on Catharine Place, by which time, Mrs. Foster and Cecilia had joined them. Mrs. Foster had to be introduced to Priscilla Beswick, but Cecilia was well acquainted with her, though this was their first meeting since Lord Fitzwalter had wed Cecilia’s friend Lucy instead of Priscilla, and so Cecilia was a trifle ill at ease. But Priscilla laughed and joked and complimented Cecilia as if they’d been bosom friends of many years’ standing instead of just casual acquaintances.
After they left the Pump Room and were waiting for a chair for Mrs. Foster, Cecilia turned to Sophie in wonder. “Why do you think Priscilla Beswick has come to Bath? It’s most peculiar, her being so newly married. And she traveled here on her own, without her husband. What do you make of it?”
But Sophie did not know what to make of it. She only knew it appeared Priscilla Beswick may not be entirely happy with her marriage. And that she might feel Sophie was to blame.
* * *
After the ladies had returned to their lodgings, Mrs. Foster had much to say about the morning’s activities.
“Cecilia, I was very pleased with your appearance and demeanor this morning. It was obvious Lord Courtney was similarly delighted.”
“Lord Courtney,” Sophie said, surprised. “Surely you do not think of him for Cecilia.”
Mrs. Foster smiled benignly at her niece. “I understand, Sophronia, where you would think it somewhat . . . ambitious of me to encourage Cecilia to look so high, but in this case I do not think it matters that her dowry is no larger. Lady Smallpeace assured me that family background is her foremost consideration when seeking a bride for her grandnephew, and now that she is aware of our family connection, coupled with Cecilia’s modest and ladylike demeanor, I do think she’d consider her a suitable wife for Lord Courtney.”
“But . . . what do family background and fortune mat
ter if there are no tender feelings? Cecilia, you cannot tell me you are interested in Lord Courtney?”
Before Cecilia could answer, Mrs. Foster did. “Sophronia! I am beginning to believe the recent popularity you’ve experienced has gone to your head, just as Lady Smallpeace prophesied! It is true that your intervention on Lord Fitzwalter’s behalf was a propitious one; Priscilla Hammond had nothing but her beauty to recommend her and was obviously an unwise choice for a gentleman of Lord Fitzwalter’s standing. But in general, such matters should be left to older and wiser family members. A match should not be entered into based solely, or even primarily, upon sentiment, which can fade over time. If Cecilia marries Lord Courtney, her son will be a viscount!”
Sophie desperately wanted to retort: “And an idiot,” but felt that might anger her aunt even further. And it was true that, while Lord Fitzwalter and Lucy seemed to be happy, Sophie’s interference in Priscilla and Charles Beswick’s affairs did not seem to have worked out as well for them, so she could certainly not claim to be an expert in these matters. Also, Sophie saw no point in borrowing trouble; it was early days yet and Lord Courtney might not come up to scratch. In which case Cecilia would most likely seriously consider the suit of Mr. Hartwell, who Sophie persisted in thinking was a far better match for her cousin. So she decided to hold her tongue for the present, though she very much disagreed with her aunt’s sentiments.
However, Mrs. Foster wasn’t yet finished. “While we are on this subject, Sophronia, I also wanted to congratulate you on having attached Mr. Maitland.”
Miss Lattimore's Letter Page 6
