By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “Smouch?” C.J. asked.

  Cook enjoyed being able to teach the girl who could read and write a thing or two. “It’s what you call the black tea what’s been adul-te-rated. Tea is very dear, and poor folks can’t afford better. The stingy old gimp upstairs has no excuse but her greed.”

  Bold enough to inquire what other potables and comestibles were routinely doctored, C.J. learned that the practice was widespread—quite a surprise for someone who had thought that nineteenth-century food and drink was much purer and healthier than the processed and packaged food of the twenty-first. Cook and Mary were proud to show off their superior knowledge, explaining to C.J. that if logwood dye was unavailable, black lead would be used to counterfeit Indian tea.

  C.J. learned that gin was often faked with turpentine and sulfuric acid. The “preservatives” found in beer included a number of poisonous substances masquerading as “spices,” and it was frequently adulterated with treacle, tobacco, or licorice in order to achieve the desired color. Port was made to appear aged by the addition of supertartrate of potash.

  As far as foodstuffs went, C.J. was revolted to hear that the pickle sellers’ wares owed their bright emerald hue to tincture of copper; the vibrant orange of a good Gloucester’s rind was achieved with red lead, and commercially baked bread was loaded with alum. Big Macs now seemed positively organic by comparison. C.J. reasoned that her Georgian counterparts must have developed constitutions of cast iron. What a miracle they lived to adulthood at all with such a noxious diet: if the comestibles themselves didn’t kill them, the copper cookware surely would finish them off!

  This was the first time her ladyship was to entertain a visitor since C.J. had been banished to the kitchen. Lady Wickham had no choice but to order her upstairs to serve the tea, since she made a better appearance than the unfortunate Mary. Accordingly, C.J. scrubbed the coal dust from her face and hands, removed her filthy apron, and tried to make herself look as presentable as possible.

  She entered the parlor with the heavy silver tea tray and placed it carefully on the sideboard. Lady Wickham’s guest was a well-dressed woman whose plump, dimpled countenance, framed by a profusion of gray sausage curls that poked impertinently out of her white lace cap, lent her an air of jollity—a stark contrast to her prune-faced hostess.

  “I am pleased to see you out and about again, Euphoria,” said Lady Wickham as C.J. spread a white linen cloth on the tea table, then set down the teapot, sugar bowl and creamer, and a plate of lemon halves wrapped like bonbons in cheesecloth. “Miss Welles, Lady Dalrymple does not take cream. When you have finished serving the tea, you will return the pitcher to the kitchen before it turns.”

  C.J. discreetly nodded in acknowledgment, laying the delicate cups and deep saucers from Lady Wickham’s best china service before each of the women. The hand-painted floral pattern was worthy in itself of admiration, but the aspect that C.J. admired most was the way the deep saucer allowed for the setting of a finger sandwich or biscuit right beside the cup, thereby eliminating the need for an additional plate on an already crowded tea table. How clever! And why were modern tea services not so configured?

  “It does one good to take the air after such a lengthy period of mourning. Though I cannot say what you have ever done to merit preferential treatment, Eloisa,” replied Lady Dalrymple, her twinkling eyes indicating that she was speaking partly in jest, “you are my first social call since Alexander’s death. Were it not your natal day, I should have remained at home amid the comforts of my parrot, my pekes, and my grief.”

  C.J. set out the three-tiered stand upon which sat two freshly baked currant scones, a few tiny finger sandwiches, and a meager plate of sweets—a lavish display indeed for Lady Wickham, although it would not constitute a proper meal for one person, let alone two. She eyed Lady Dalrymple, a generously proportioned, furbelowed woman, perhaps a generation younger than Lady Wickham. The caller’s full quilted skirt with its deeply flounced hem lent her a somewhat upholstered appearance. C.J. thought of Mother Ginger from The Nutcracker.

  “You must forgive my curiosity for gaining the better of my civility, Euphoria. I never learned how the young earl met his end. Miss Welles, you have forgotten the plates!”

  C.J. endeavored to cover her confusion, not to mention shock, apologizing profusely to Lady Wickham for her inattention. But did not the deep saucers serve the same office?

  Lady Dalrymple released a weighty sigh and reached for a watercress sandwich. “I should have thought it was the talk of the ton, Eloisa.”

  “I do not often visit the Pump Room for the latest gossip,” Lady Wickham replied, pointing to her gimpy leg with the tip of her walking stick.

  Imagine C.J.’s astonishment when the two elegant noblewomen dumped their tea from the cups into the saucers! What sort of proper table manners were these?! Lady Wickham made a second demand for the tea plates, reprimanding C.J. for her lack of alacrity in the fetching of them. The plates’ most obvious necessity had now illuminated itself. C.J. beat a hasty retreat to the pantry cupboard for the proper dishes, returning to overhear the following conversation.

  “Of course, ever since the trouble began on the Continent, it has been inadvisable for Englishmen to visit France on the Grand Tour,” Lady Dalrymple began. “My good friend, Lady Oliver, who has always had a rather impregnable opinion of the French, which naturally does not extend to the selection of her modiste, persuaded me to insist that my son visit the East instead. It has become all the fashion, you know, since the birth of the French Republic. One never knows what might happen to an English nobleman on French soil nowadays.”

  Lady Dalrymple took a sip of the new tea and made a dreadful face, although she elected not to comment on the brew. “Alexander was visiting India, and at the invitation of the rajah, was riding atop one of their sacred white elephants.” Her eyes dimmed with tears. “The earl was perched in one of those howdahs when something spooked the beast, and it reared up, dislodging the howdah from its back. Alexander fell to the ground and was trapped in the small compartment. He could not free himself in time before . . . the elephant . . .” Lady Dalrymple extracted a dainty handkerchief from a large reticule of apple-green watered silk. “Imagine, the last thing the earl—my Alexander—saw was an enormous wrinkled foot, or do they call it a hoof? I never . . .” She broke off her narrative and blew her nose loudly.

  “How frightful!” C.J. exclaimed.

  Lady Wickham looked up from her tea, aghast at her servant’s interruption.

  Lady Dalrymple inserted her monocle and peered in the girl’s direction. “Who is the young lady, Eloisa? I have never seen her here before.”

  “You were always an original, Euphoria,” sniffed Lady Wickham with evident distaste. “I must confess that I have never comprehended your eccentricities, in particular your fascination with members of the lower orders of society.”

  “If that be the worst of my faults, Eloisa, I am prepared to face my maker with a clear conscience,” replied the visitor, continuing to inspect C.J. through her glass. “The English—not God—created the class system.” A cloud of concern dimmed Lady Dalrymple’s otherwise pleasant countenance when she spied the fading mark on the girl’s cheek, the telltale evidence of where Lady Wickham had slapped her three days earlier.

  “I found Miss Welles at the assizes a few weeks ago. She had stolen an apple and was brought before the magistrate for her misdemeanor. She quite stunned the court and the spectators by displaying uncommon intelligence for a wayward indigent, whereupon I decided to engage her as my companion; and I hasten to add that she has caused nothing but trouble ever since her arrival. I have no qualms about repeating in her presence that Miss Welles is the most impertinent person I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.”

  C.J. poured more tea, forcing herself to hold her tongue. The visitor reached for a small white macaroon.

  “An excellent selection, Lady Dalrymple. Cook makes superior ratafia cakes,” remarked Lady Wickham, nibb
ling at a fresh strawberry tartlet.

  Ratafia cakes? “Pray don’t eat that!” C.J. exclaimed, virtually wresting the meringue-like cookie from the guest’s bejeweled hand. “It’s poison!”

  Chapter Six

  In which the sudden acquisition of an eccentric benefactress is accompanied by a painful farewell.

  ON HEARING THIS DIRE WARNING, the rather portly Euphoria Camberley, Countess of Dalrymple, fairly leapt from her seat.

  “Miss Welles! What the deuce are you about?” An infuriated Lady Wickham rose in high dudgeon to her full height of about four feet seven inches. “Are you suggesting that I am poisoning my guests?”

  “Not deliberately, Lady Wickham,” C.J. hastened to add. “But Cook uses bitter almonds in the recipe, does she not?”

  “Where is your overactive imagination headed, Miss Welles?”

  “The proper way to make ratafia cakes is to grind bitter almonds,” C.J. pressed on, remembering what she had learned at the By a Lady audition. “Bitter almonds contain a chemical—” She was met with two uncomprehending stares. “The bitter almonds themselves contain an ingredient called prussic acid. Any chemist will tell you it’s the same thing as cyanide, but in a much milder form.”

  Lady Dalrymple was curious. “Then why have we not all met our maker from taking afternoon tea every day?” she asked whimsically.

  C.J. wondered the same thing. “I expect that one would have to devour an unfathomable number of ratafia cakes in a lifetime in order to die from them. But even in small amounts, the prussic acid can have an adverse effect.”

  “Miss Welles, you have enlightened us quite enough!”

  “Let the girl speak, Eloisa,” the countess contradicted. “I should very much like to know what this prussic acid can do to one’s constitution.”

  “I believe that it makes the heart race faster than it properly should, Lady Dalrymple.”

  “How fascinating!” replied her ladyship. “Eloisa, I have often wondered why I am met with palpitations in the early evening hours. Perhaps my fondness for ratafia cakes is the author of such experiences. Your knowledge of science is quite remarkable for a young lady, Miss Welles. I am curious to learn how you came by it.”

  Fortuitously for C.J., who had begun to scramble for a sensible reply, Lady Dalrymple was more interested in her own narrative thread. “My brother, Albert, dabbled in alchemy as a hobby,” the countess continued. “Even as he gambled away his inheritance, the marquess sought methods of turning hazard punters and betting slips into gold. What are your Christian names, girl?”

  Lady Wickham released an indelicate snort, wishing more than anything to put a stop to this conversation, but even she was above being overtly rude to a guest.

  “Cassandra Jane, Lady Dalrymple.”

  “Good heavens!” The dowager countess withdrew a large fan from her reticule and snapped it open dramatically. She fished amid her brocaded bodice and drew forth a locket, which had been resting on her ample chest. “How astonishing!” she exclaimed, comparing the miniature portrait in the silver capsule to the young serving woman who stood before her. “There is no other answer for it.”

  “No other answer for what, your ladyship?” C.J. asked.

  “You are the image of the late marchioness,” Lady Dalrymple marveled. “And of course your Christian names are those the marquess gave his only daughter . . . and now, for the love of heaven, I see the cross!” C.J. touched the rough amber pendant hanging around her neck, surprised that Lady Dalrymple could see the cross without her monocle, since its color was nearly the same brown shade as was her livery. Lady Dalrymple appeared to be on the verge of tears. Had she lost her wits? What was the eccentric woman about? “Where did you come by this cross, Miss Welles?” her ladyship asked in an astonished whisper. Although C.J. attempted to formulate a response, she was immediately interrupted once again by Lady Dalrymple, who provided the answer to her own question.

  The countess ran her thumb and forefinger along the cross’s pockmarked underside. “When you were born, Lady Cassandra, this cross was given to you by your mother and father. You never had the chance to remember your mother, and more’s the pity on’t. She died giving you life. Such a beautiful woman Emma was. Your father was monstrous heartbroken by her death. The marquess lost everything at once; after his young wife was carried off, he tried to drown his sorrows in gambling and drink, and was in no fit condition to look after a babe. One day, shortly after your birth, your father removed the silver setting from your cross and pawned it to satisfy a tradesman’s bill.”

  C.J. endeavored to follow the countess’s narrative. Did her ears deceive her or had Lady Dalrymple addressed her as Lady Cassandra?

  “Euphoria, what meaning am I to extract from this mawkish display of sentiment over a servant?” queried a stunned Lady Wickham.

  “Eloisa, I have you to thank for reuniting me with my niece.”

  “What?” chorused Lady Wickham and C.J.

  “Now I understand why you came to Bath—alone and incognito.” Lady Dalrymple leveled her gaze at C.J. in an effort to communicate to the young woman that she had never been mentally healthier in her life. “Albert’s unfortunate downfall is well known in our circles, and without a proper introduction some of our set would wish to cut you ere they made your acquaintance. Small wonder that you had to invent a new name for yourself. And to call yourself Welles when you are new-baptized, as it were—in a city renowned for its waters—is quite clever indeed.” Lady Dalrymple restored her fan to the capacious reticule. “Eloisa, I shall take my niece home with me immediately. Fetch your things, Lady Cassandra.”

  “Please, your ladyship—call me Miss Welles.”

  The countess pursed her lips. “As you wish. No doubt you have already endured enough pain since your arrival,” she added, with a rebuking glance toward Lady Wickham.

  “You will leave your livery behind, Miss Welles,” Lady Wickham commanded.

  “Yes, your ladyship,” replied C.J., who entertained no notion of absconding with it. Her fate had taken such a sudden turn that she had no time to untangle the jumble of thoughts that had entered her head. If Lady Dalrymple was truly raving mad, Lady Wickham would never have entertained her at Laura Place. A new adventure had landed in her lap—one that was clearly preferable to a life of servitude for Lady Wickham—and C.J. seized her opportunity to see where it would lead.

  “I shall wait for you in the vestibule, Cassandra,” said Lady Dalrymple.

  C.J. returned to the airless garret she shared with Mary and retrieved her yellow muslin gown from its hiding place in the metal trunk. She dressed herself, making sure that the (now rather shrunken) fringed coquelicot shawl concealed the zipper from view, then slipped the strings of her reticule over her wrist, donned her bonnet, and descended directly to the scullery.

  From her friend’s expressive countenance, Mary immediately ascertained that Miss Welles was leaving her for good. “Don’t cry, Mary,” C.J. murmured, holding the sobbing girl in her arms. “It seems I have been presented with an astonishing reversal of fortune. I promise you I will do whatever is in my power to get you away from here as soon as possible.”

  “I daren’t ask you not to go, for I know you must . . . and you’d be a foolish goose indeed if you did not, Miss Welles. But I shall miss you dreadfully. And as long as I live, I will never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve taught me.”

  “I can express no less, Mary,” C.J. confessed.

  “I never loved anyone before, Miss Welles.” Mary sniffled.

  C.J. stroked the girl’s hair. Poor child; even her tresses lacked luster. She kissed Mary’s moist forehead and broke the embrace, her cheeks stained with tears, her heart unable to articulate the words within it.

  Lady Dalrymple escorted C.J. to a gleaming burgundy-colored coach, which seemed somehow familiar. When the green-clad coachman swiveled from his perch to regard her, C.J. realized that it was Lady Dalrymple’s carriage that had nearly run her down on Great
Pulteney Street.

  “Willis!” chirped the countess. A young, periwigged footman in forest-green livery hopped down and opened the carriage door for his mistress. “Help the young lady into the carriage, Willis, and tell Blunt to drive home immediately.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” The white-gloved Willis turned the brass latch and handed C.J. inside, followed by Lady Dalrymple. She rapped upon the inside of the roof with the head of her walking stick and the coach began to lurch along the cobblestones. Suddenly, C.J. wondered if she had made a wise decision. Feeling trapped, and fearful of becoming engaged in further conversation, C.J. pretended to faint, but her new-found benefactress swiftly came to the rescue with a cone-shaped ivory vinaigrette, waving the vial under C.J.’s nostrils.

  The sharp scent of the distilled smelling salts made her eyes water, and she pushed aside the older woman’s plump hand, which was adorned with several heavy rings studded with semiprecious stones. She felt her stomach churning with anxiety, remembering Georgian novels—and even erotica—where young ladies of no verifiable parentage were kidnapped by well-fed, well-accoutred matrons such as the one seated beside her, and thence condemned to lives of prostitution in high-class bordellos.

  Perhaps the countess was reading her mind. “Have no fear, my pet,” Lady Dalrymple soothed. “I am a lonely widow who has recently lost her only son. You are clearly a young woman of uncommon intelligence.” She patted C.J.’s wrist with a fleshy palm. “You must be aware that many girls of your age don’t even have their alphabet.”