A Holiday in Bath

by Julie Daines

  “It must have been seeing him today,” she told Mr. Northam. “I’m very sorry for all the inconvenience.” Hopefully, he had not come too far.

  “Inconvenience?” he said with a stilted laugh. “Inconvenience is when it rains and I’ve forgot my umbrella. Or when I am obliged to dine out but I’d prefer to stay in. You had me worried sick. I thought for sure the worst might be happening.”

  She glanced around the room, searching the shadows. “He’s not out of jail, is he?” For that would be the worst that could happen.

  Mr. Northam pulled a chair to the edge of her bed. “No. Of course not. I didn’t mean that, only that you sounded like perhaps you’d taken very ill.”

  “You do look pale,” Mrs. Strumpshaw added.

  “I could use some water,” Marianne said.

  Mrs. Strumpshaw nodded and hurried out.

  Mr. Northam took hold of her hand, the warmth and strength of his touch pulling her out of her dream world and back to the safety of Green Street.

  “Miss Wood, you must forgive me. I should not have urged you to see him so soon. I did not fully realize the extent of this man’s hold over you. I should never have asked you to see him until you were ready.” He gave her hand a little squeeze before releasing, breaking her tether to reality.

  His eyes were dark and troubled. She must have made quite a commotion with her nightmares.

  “Do you always lock your door?” he asked.

  He must know the answer. He knew what Hayter was capable of and why she would put as many barriers as possible between herself and him.

  “Always.” She shrugged. “Do you really have to ask?”

  “No, I suppose not.” He gazed down at her coverlet for a few moments, then said, “Perhaps it might help if you tell me what happened the night you lost your family.”

  These were things she’d not discussed with anyone. Of course the night it happened, she’d told the vicar and the magistrate, leaving out her description of Bartholomew Hayter. And then she’d left her home behind and taken up residence with the Lashams as their governess, never again mentioning her past or why she suffered every night with terrors.

  But there was something about the way he leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped tightly, his eyes studying her, piercing and fierce. It made her want to tell him, to surrender her troubles to someone else, even if only for a moment.

  “We were coming home late one evening when we had to stop because a tree had fallen across the road. He appeared out of nowhere and set our carriage on fire.” She tried desperately not to see it all over again in her mind. “The whole thing was engulfed in flames in only moments. I alone made it out.” She turned her hand palm up, exposing the web of scar left by the burning coach.

  He glided his fingers over it lightly. His touch once again sent a thrum of heat through her body. She pulled her hand away. Whatever it was about this man that affected her so, she must not let it cloud her judgment. She would not allow herself to be taken in by him and his beguiling ways.

  “Tell me about your family,” he said. “I should like to know something about them.”

  Her family. No one ever asked about them. Or if someone did, she’d mention they were all dead, and that would be the end of the questions. But Mr. Northam wanted to know.

  “My father.” She closed her eyes, trying to recall his face without flames and fear stricken across it, then she opened her eyes because she could not. “He laughed at anything. He loved a good joke and found humor in the most ordinary things. My mother always complained about his frivolity, but we all knew she loved him for it. She was so elegant and graceful. Always sought after on the dance floor.

  “My brother, Frank, was older than me by exactly one year and a day. We both inherited my mother’s light hair and my father’s hazel eyes.” She looked up at Mr. Northam as he watched her talk about her family, a gentle smile on his lips. “Frank was all about the sport—riding, shooting, boxing, though my parents never knew about that last one.”

  “I’m sorry you lost such wonderful people.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, partly because her throat was so dry and partly because of the way Mr. Northam’s hand had skimmed over her burn marks.

  Mrs. Strumpshaw returned with a glass of cold water. Marianne drank deeply, the coolness soothing her weary voice.

  “Perhaps what she really needs is something stronger—to help her sleep,” Mr. Northam said.

  “I could make her a cup of chamomile tea,” Mrs. Strumpshaw suggested.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Be sure to add a splash of brandy.”

  Mrs. Strumpshaw hustled away again.

  “So then, after Hayter set your coach on fire, what happened next?” he asked. But he had changed once again. His voice was more distant, more official. She wasn’t sure now whether he was asking because he cared about her or to get information for the trial. A moment ago, it seemed he’d left the barrister behind and showed genuine concern, but now the lawman had returned.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why do you want to know? Is this important to the inquest? Will I be asked to tell it there?”

  His eyebrows rose, a moment of surprise flitted across his face. “I cannot deny that certain details might help our case. The more Hayter is made out to be the worst of villains, the greater the influence we will have over the jurors.” He leaned closer. “But, Miss Wood, if you think I do not feel keenly the loss of your family and all that you have suffered, you misunderstand me. I cannot begin to imagine all you have endured. It is worse than I believed.”

  He was playing his game again. And she was nothing but a governess caught up in the deep blue eyes and dark brown hair of Mr. Northam. Surely she wasn’t the first woman to find herself weakened by such a man.

  Marianne had come to Bath for one purpose: ending Bartholomew Hayter’s reign of murder and terror. If telling Mr. Northam her darkest moment was necessary to achieve that end, so be it.

  “After I got out of the carriage, I turned back to help my mother. But he was there, grinning at me with his yellow eyes. I don’t know what color they really are, but in the glow of the fire, they were yellow.”

  They would always be yellow, for that is what she saw every time she closed her eyes. Like two slits of demon fire. She’d not be sleeping any more this night, that was certain. Not with so much of the past being stirred up, creating visions she’d been trying to forget.

  He handed her a handkerchief, and she pressed it to her eyes, wishing she could wash it all away with tears.

  “He had a knife,” she continued. “He . . . pressed it against me. Told me I had a pretty face. Told me he’d make me very happy.” She turned aside. She couldn’t look at Mr. Northam—not while she spoke these poisonous words. “His knife was so sharp. He slit my summer muslin like it was naught but gossamer threads. He started on my stays, but another carriage came around the bend. The vicar. He’d been attending a dying parishioner. It must have scared him—Hayter, I mean. He said, ‘I’ll see you in Hell.’ Then he was gone. It wasn’t until the vicar found me still alive that I realized he’d given me this.”

  She unbuttoned the high neck of her chemise, exposing to Mr. Northam the top few inches of an eight-inch scar that missed her vitals by the smallest of margins.

  His face turned the color of putty.

  “The vicar carried me to his carriage and went back to check on the rest of my family. Hayter came back, standing at the edge of the trees where I could see him from the open curricle. He pressed a finger to his lips, then dragged it across his throat. His message was clear. If I said a word, he would kill me.”

  Mr. Northam had asked if she always locked her door. Now he knew.

  He sat in silence, his jaw muscles tightening until at last he stood and walked to the window. “I will see him hanged.”

  However terrifying it had been to stand in front of the iron bars and come face-to-face with him, it would have been ten times worse had the man in the jail not
been him. At least now, even if her sleeping mind could not accept it, he was caged. The threat was over.

  It would take a long time before he quit her dreams. Perhaps it would take forever.

  Mrs. Strumpshaw’s footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs. Marianne quickly buttoned her chemise. Mr. Northam smoothed the front of his coat and turned to face the room.

  Mrs. Strumpshaw carried a tray with a teapot, a teacup, and a decanter on it. “Here you are, dear. This’ll calm your nerves.”

  Mr. Northam removed the stopper and added a generous splash of brandy to her tea, then Mrs. Strumpshaw handed it to her.

  She took a sip. She’d never been fond of chamomile, but this one was not so bad. It must be all the additives Mr. Northam insisted upon.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Strumpshaw,” Mr. Northam said. “You may go back to bed. I’ll sit here with Miss Wood until she falls asleep.”

  Mrs. Strumpshaw narrowed her eyes at him. “Is that seemly?”

  “Life is not always seemly, Mrs. Strumpshaw.” He spoke as if he knew something about this. “And sometimes we do what must be done without regard to seemliness.”

  Mrs. Strumpshaw nodded and shrugged her shoulders. “That’s what she said too.” She gave Mr. Northam a curtsy, leaving the door half open as she left.

  “Drink up,” he said. “I’ll sit here till you are resting.” He took the chair he’d been sitting in and moved it to the window.

  “I can’t sleep with you staring at me.” What kind of nonsense was this?

  He picked up the chair and turned it so he faced looking out the window. “There. Now your privacy is assured.” He leaned back and put his booted feet on the windowsill, arms folded.

  Marianne finished the last of the tea and set it on her bedside table by her book. She rolled over, her back toward Mr. Northam. She couldn’t possibly relax with him sitting there. She tried to lift her head to tell him to leave, but the heaviness of the brandy was upon her, and her head would not move.

  Chapter Four

  Business Friends

  Mrs. Strumpshaw handed Marianne her pelisse, a lighter, softer gray than the dark blue of the dress she wore underneath. She wished now that she had thought to bring some of her nicer dresses, even if they were several years old. It would have been good to have something to wear around Bath besides the dark frocks she’d become accustomed to as a governess.

  In the days she’d been in Bath, Mr. Northam had taken her to church at St. Michael’s, the large structure at the end of Green Street. The next few days were dampened by heavy rain, and she was forced to stay indoors and play backgammon with Mrs. Strumpshaw’s Jamie. Mr. Northam had come by several times, dripping wet but always with a warm smile for Marianne and a handful of pastilles for Jamie.

  He never stayed for dinner, even though Marianne tried to convince him he was welcome.

  At last, today the sun shone. Carriages clattered up and down the cobbled roads, but the clatter of pattens had ceased. Mr. Northam had promised her a tour of Bath.

  A knock came from the front door.

  “That must be Mr. Northam,” Marianne said.

  Mrs. Strumpshaw hurried to answer it. Marianne picked up her reticule, stuffing in a clean handkerchief, then started down the stairs.

  Mr. Northam waited for her in the small parlor.

  She stepped in, ready to go.

  He watched her for a moment, then smiled. “We’re off, then.”

  They stepped out into the glowing sunlight, and he handed her into the carriage. She settled in, keeping well to her side of the seat. She’d not forgotten the way his touch affected her.

  He climbed in, giving her another easy smile. He tapped the carriage top, and it rolled forward, clacking on the paving stones.

  The streets this morning were crowded again with carriages and people. They’d all come out to enjoy the sun. It took them some time to only travel a short distance as the going was so slow.

  They drove through row upon row of honey-colored stone houses and shops. He pointed out places of interest. The Circus. The Royal Crescent where the curved row of elegant apartments overlooked a vast green. From here, the prospect took in the River Avon and miles and miles of countryside.

  They went downhill, taking the lower road and following the Avon until they came up again on the opposite side. The driver brought the coach to a stop in front of a building with several columns along the facade.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “This is the Pump Room. One cannot come to Bath and not partake of the waters.” He climbed out, took her hand, and helped her down. “One glass of Bath water and you will be cured of all your ills.”

  “All my ills?” Had he forgotten already the extent of her ills? He had been there several nights past and witnessed her nightmares firsthand.

  “Perhaps not in your case,” he said with a wink. “We do not profess to be gods. But it was good enough for Bladud.”

  “Who on earth is Bladud?”

  He offered her his arm as they reached the few stone steps leading into the Pump Room. “Come along, I’ll tell you while we take a turn. One cannot be a true Bath-goer until one takes a turn in the Pump Room.”

  Soft but lively music floated down the stairs and out the door. She followed Mr. Northam inside. The large, lofty room had a gallery where musicians played. The place was crowded with all manner of finely dressed people. Rather than help her blend quietly into the background, her plain governess dress made her stand out—a dark pebble in a sea of elegant pearls.

  “I should have brought better clothes,” she said. “I did not think I would need them.”

  “Nonsense. You look lovely.” He placed a few coins on the counter and took two glasses of murky water. “And if anyone is looking for a governess, you are advertising yourself much to your advantage.”

  “Does that make you my charge?”

  He laughed and leaned close. “I believe there is much I can learn from you, Miss Marianne Wood.” He straightened up. “But I’m a very slow learner. I fear I may try your patience.”

  On the contrary, he was perhaps one of the cleverest men she’d ever met.

  “Here.” He offered her one of the glasses. “Water from the ancient springs of Bath.”

  She brought the cup to her nose. “It smells like someone’s been boiling eggs in it. Are you sure it’s safe to drink?”

  “Quite sure. Look around you.” He gestured at the crowd of people. “Everyone is drinking it.”

  Marianne glanced around the room. A fair number of both men and women held glasses of the stuff. Some were on crutches, two in wheeled bath chairs. Many of them had no discernible ailment and were simply elegant-looking folk, though none of them looked as if they particularly enjoyed the water.

  “You first,” she said to Mr. Northam.

  He lifted his glass and drained it. “Voilà.” He smacked his lips. “Delicious. I feel very much improved.”

  She took a sip. It was much warmer that she’d expected. And though the taste was not quite as bad as the smell, it was not anything close to delicious.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She took another sip. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. But close.”

  He set his empty glass on the tray of a passing attendant.

  “It’s better than stewed eels,” she said.

  “How can you say such things? Stewed eels are my favorite.”

  “So Mrs. Strumpshaw was telling me.” Marianne took one more sip and decided it would be her last.

  “You obviously haven’t tasted Mrs. Strumpshaw’s eels. Not all eels are created equal. It says as much right in the Bible.”

  What a ridiculous man.

  “Aha! So you do have a smile locked away in there.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d been smiling. Or rather, she hadn’t realized she had been not smiling. One more item to add to the list of things Bartholomew Hayter had taken from her.

  “Oh, dear,” Mr. Northam
said quietly. “Gone so soon.” He took her glass of spa water, his fingers grazing hers, lingering half a moment longer than necessary. “You are a beautiful woman, Miss Wood. And when you smile, it is something quite exquisite.”

  She stared at him. Undoubtedly, her mouth hung open and her cheeks burned hotter than the spa water. Mr. Northam had combed through his wardrobe again, coming out this morning dressed in an entirely new personage—one that Marianne had a hard time resisting.

  A tall, thin man came striding up. “Mr. Northam. How good to see you this morning.”

  “Mr. Warren.” He shook the man’s hand heartily. “Pleasure to see you.” He turned toward Marianne. “And may I introduce you to Miss Wood, a business friend.”

  Mr. Warren bowed graciously. “At your service.”

  Marianne returned his greeting with a curtsy, praying her cheeks had resumed a more placid hue. And how kind of Mr. Northam to remind her that, even after his extravagant praise, she qualified as his business friend. Heaven forbid they should be simply friends.

  She was a foolish girl. She’d been having a lovely morning touring the town with Mr. Northam. He had a magical way of making her feel safe but not pitiful. Thank goodness Mr. Warren had come along or she might have gotten carried away with the wrong idea. It was just the grounding she needed to keep her silly head out of the clouds.

  “How is your family?” he asked Mr. Warren.

  “Very well, thanks to you.” Mr. Warren turned to Marianne. “When my wife had a run-in with a local cutpurse, Northam here had him swinging from Taunton Stone Gallows in no time.”

  “How awful for her,” said Marianne. “How much did he steal?” Hopefully not as much as Hayter stole from her.

  “Nothing.” He laughed merrily. “That’s the beauty of it. This man could make a saint look guilty. He’s brilliant at it.”

  She’d almost forgotten about this side of Mr. Northam. The man playing the game—this time with other men’s lives.

  “That didn’t stop my wife from playing up the worst of it. She took off to her cousin’s in Scotland and stayed there the whole of the summer. Took her that long to calm her nerves.”