A Holiday in Bath

by Julie Daines

  “I’m glad she’s feeling better,” said Mr. Northam. He gave Mr. Warren a genial pat on the shoulder before the man bowed and moved on to the next person of his acquaintance.

  Mr. Northam seemed pleased with himself as he ushered Marianne onward in their obligatory turn about the Pump Room.

  Business friend. The words continued to tumble in her thoughts. In truth, they hadn’t known each other so very long. Somehow, the episode during that first night made her attachment feel greater than it should after so short a time. He’d been very kind to come to the house these last few days and show her about town, but she must not take his civilities for more than simply good breeding.

  For all she’d confessed to him about her past, and for what he seemed to already know, Marianne knew very little about Mr. Northam beyond his business with her and Bartholomew Hayter. And his ability to play people like a game of whist.

  “What about your family?” she asked him.

  His eyebrows went up. “What do you mean?”

  “I was just considering how you know all the details of my life and I know nothing about you. Where do you come from? What is your story?”

  He laughed. “My story?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I should like to know what kind of family you come from—something about your history so that we might be on equal footing.”

  “Equal footing.” He laughed again.

  “Yes.” It seemed only fair that he might at least divulge a small portion of his background now that she had opened her soul to him. “What about your father, for instance? He must be a man of property.”

  The smile faded from his face as he looked away, his eyes going to the windows overlooking the street.

  She assumed he came from a wealthy family, as most barristers did. Perhaps even a baronet. That he was a younger son who found himself without means and so went into law to earn a living.

  “So this is what you meant by equal footing. I am a gentleman’s son and you are a gentleman’s daughter?”

  “No.” That wasn’t at all what she meant. He had it wrong, anyway. “I used to be a gentleman’s daughter. Now I’m a governess. As you already know.”

  “Well, yes. Don’t forget you are advertising.” He gestured at her plain clothes. “Tell me again how this came to be.”

  She did not need his reminder of how she stood out among these elegant and softly dressed people. There was a time she had clothes to hold her own in such company. Too bad Mr. Northam didn’t know her back then, before Bartholomew Hayter.

  “When he killed my father, mother, and brother, I lost everything. The estate should have been my brother’s, but now that he was gone, the entail placed it in the hands of a man I’d never met before. He took it all and went upon his merry way. I received barely enough to live on until I took work as a governess. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “With the Lashams in Shrewsbury.”

  “Yes.”

  “And is Mr. Lasham good to you?”

  “Mr. Lasham is dead. Mrs. Lasham is a widow, and she is good enough. I have work and I’m left alone. That is all I want.”

  They had crossed the length of the Pump Room now and were directly underneath the gallery where the musicians played. He leaned close so they could hear each other without shouting. “Is that really all you want?”

  She did not answer immediately. Other than to be free of Bartholomew Hayter and his hold over her, she’d thought very little of wants. Besides, it had never been about what she wanted. “My governess life is all I deserve. I was meant to be among the dead that night. It is not right, I don’t think, that they are gone and I, alone, left to live.”

  He shook his head, leaning even closer. “Do not say that. You were meant to be here, now. In Bath.”

  She glanced up at him, but his face was turned away. He meant only to testify against Hayter, of course.

  “Mr. Northam, what a pleasant surprise.” It was a woman with her hair wrapped in the style of a Grecian turban. She wore a shimmering satin dress thinner than crepe and more suited to an evening ball than a morning out. The soft fabric did much to accentuate her figure—and she was well aware of that fact.

  “Mrs. Cricklade. You look well today.” He bowed, and the woman gave a deep curtsy, which only presented more of her figure. “May I introduce you to Miss Wood, here for an upcoming inquest.”

  Now Marianne was no longer even his business friend, but only a participant in an inquest—which was as it should be. She must not lose sight of her purpose.

  “Mrs. Cricklade’s husband was killed in a carriage accident,” Mr. Northam explained. “I helped her with some legal matters.”

  Mrs. Cricklade’s soft laughter was perfectly executed, like the tinkling of Christmas bells. “Oh, you’re too modest. Mr. Northam was able to fault the gentleman who caused the accident for nearly his whole inheritance.”

  “Mr. Northam must be very proud of himself,” said Marianne. How many more people in this town owed their good fortune to the skills of Mr. Northam? Soon enough, she would be one of them. Oh, Mr. Northam. Thank you so much for putting my family’s murderer in the noose.

  As ridiculous at it sounded, she had no doubt she would be another admirer left in the wake of his prowess with the law. He played his game very well.

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Northam, and he had the grace to look just the right amount of sheepish and grateful to make Mrs. Cricklade set off her chimes again.

  “I do hope you’re still planning on coming to the assembly on Friday. We always make such a fine couple when we stand up together, don’t you think?”

  In fact, they would make a very handsome couple. Mr. Northam’s brawny physique, Mrs. Cricklade’s elegant figure. Both with faces carved from marble.

  “I should be happy to enjoy a dance with you,” he said. “But I’m afraid all the beauty will be on your part. You are a lovely dancer.” His words came out sincere, more sincere than Marianne expected for as much as she considered Mr. Northam still playing his game.

  Mrs. Cricklade slapped his arm playfully with her fan—another important accoutrement Marianne had neglected to bring on her sojourn to Bath. But then, since she was only advertising herself as a governess, what use did she have of a lace fan?

  He bowed to Mrs. Cricklade, and they set off again on their promenade.

  Marianne was done with the Pump Room, especially now that she realized so many eyes were upon them.

  He must have sensed her weariness. “Come. There is one more place I would like to show you before our day together ends.”

  They were stopped three more times by friends, admirers, and people he had saved by the time they made it outside and to the carriage.

  They plowed through the crowded streets and crossed over the River Avon. For a moment, it seemed they were headed back to the jail, but they followed a wide street and stopped in front of a hotel.

  “Sydney Gardens,” he said. “I saved the best for last.”

  Chapter Five

  Crusader

  They climbed out of the carriage and walked through the grand hotel, exiting out the back and into the gardens.

  Mr. Northam paid a man a fee, and they ducked under the bower into a beautifully laid out garden. Groomed hedgerows created the perfect background to all manner of blooming flowers and trees. It was not nearly as crowded as the Pump Room, but there was still a good number of people. He directed her down a graveled walk.

  “You never did tell me about Bladud,” she said as they veered off to the left on a path that looked like it would circle the outer perimeter of the gardens.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “King Bladud. He was the son of the king, actually. He went abroad and contracted leprosy in some awful place. When he returned, he was so ashamed of his condition he hid himself away. But hiding away—as you’ve already pointed out—does not pay for living expenses. He took work herding pigs.”

  Herding pigs, herding children—not that the Lasham children wer
e pigs by any means—but she had the distinct impression she was part of another one of his games just now, though she could not figure out what exactly it was.

  “One day, as he followed his charge of pigs, they all ran down a hill and returned covered in mud.” He smiled as he told his story, meandering the walkway. The deeper they went into the gardens, the more solitary they found themselves. “Pigs and mud is not so uncommon, of course. But this was a wintry day, and pigs use the mud to cool off. In any case, his curiosity was roused, and he followed the pigs for a few days watching them roll in the mire—all the while their skin growing smoother by the day, their scars disappearing. Bladud was no fool. He began dipping himself in that bubbling mire, finding it to be warm and soothing. Soon enough, his leprosy was cured.”

  “That is quite a story.” A legend she’d never heard of before.

  “Oh, I’m not finished. The best part is still to come.”

  “What could be better than being cured of a gruesome disease?”

  “Well, Bladud returned immediately to court where his father recognized him as his long-lost son. Soon thereafter, his father died, and he was now king of Britain. It was he who first built up the city of Bath.”

  “And that is the best part of the story?”

  Mr. Northam shook his head. “This is: he lived happily ever after.”

  She snorted. “Sentimental nonsense.”

  “Yes, but it was worth it for a glimpse of that smile again.”

  She looked away, at a willow tree dangling its limbs over the canal. It was all nonsense. And she could not let Mr. Northam’s charm distract her from the real reason she was here: the trial of her family’s murderer.

  They crossed the canal on a bridge with iron rails. Marianne paused, leaning against the rail to watch the water slipping by underneath. She picked up a leaf and dropped it into the water, then went to the opposite rail, waiting for it to emerge. It took longer than she thought, but at last it floated by, drifting downstream with the current.

  Her life was not unlike the leaf. She drifted downstream because that was where the current took her. She could not turn back or choose a different course. It was set for her, and naught could be done to turn it differently. Nor could she get off, just as this leaf must follow the canal to its end.

  Mr. Northam leaned against the railing beside her. When she glanced up, his eyes were on her, not the water.

  “Where does this canal go?” she asked.

  “It feeds into a collection basin, then into the Avon.”

  And then perhaps it was free. She needed only to stay on this course until all with Bartholomew Hayter was complete. Then perhaps she might be free as well.

  The sooner to get it over with, the better.

  “What happens next?” she asked.

  “Well, it goes on through Bristol and empties in the Severn Estuary.”

  She had turned the conversation rather quickly without bringing Mr. Northam along. She knew the geography of the River Avon.

  “I meant with him. Hayter. Will I have to testify in front of a magistrate or something?”

  “Ah.” He started walking again, Marianne falling in beside him. “Yes. We go before the magistrate tomorrow, now that we know for certain he is the man. If the magistrate finds enough cause—which I have no doubt he will—Mr. Hayter will be transferred to Taunton for the assizes. Once he is proven guilty there, he will be hanged.”

  Then he would be out of her life forever. She’d never thought the death of a person would be something to wish for.

  “Is it wrong for me to want that?” she asked Mr. Northam. “Shouldn’t I be trying to forgive him, as we are taught? Seventy times seven, I believe is what it really says in the Bible.”

  Mr. Northam stopped. He turned to face her straight on. “Miss Wood. In order for a man to receive forgiveness, he must be repentant. Did Mr. Hayter seem repentant to you?”

  She shook her head. He seemed capable—eager, even—to do it all over again given half the chance.

  “He has committed unspeakable crimes, and he must pay for them. When he chose to commit those crimes, he also chose the consequences. You cannot have one without the other. Whether you forgive him or not is up to you. The consequences of his actions are his alone, and he must bear them.”

  Perhaps. Certainly, he had done awful, evil things—things the world would easily label unforgivable—and death did seem his fair due.

  “You seem to have thought much about this.”

  He started walking again. “I have had some experience with the subject of forgiveness.”

  He offered her his arm, and she took it. Not so much because she needed it, but because the look on his face was once again a new one. A shadowy cloud darkened his visage, and his stride was not as sure as it had been before.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He gazed into the box hedge before saying, “Let me tell you this, you cannot let the choices of others be the darkness in your life. If you choose to forgive Hayter, that is between you and God. It will not change Hayter’s life. Or, you can put him behind you and live better because of it.”

  Live better. To be free from his shadow. “How can I live? How can I while the rest of my family is gone?” They had just as much right to live as she did, but he had taken it from them.

  “Because it is what they would want you to do.” Mr. Northam straightened up and gave her an easy smile. “Look here.” He pointed to a low-growing plant with dark green leaves and a few pale violet flowers just beginning to open. He reached down and plucked one of the small clusters, then held it to her nose.

  “Smell this.”

  Marianne inhaled deeply, filling her senses with the warm, sweet fragrance. “It’s lovely.”

  He nodded. “It’s called heliotrope and comes all the way from South America. Helio means sun. This flower follows the sun, bending its short stem from east to west as the day progresses. Then, during the long night, it points its little flowers facing east again, ready to greet the dawn.”

  Just like his story of Bladud and the waters of Bath, she felt he wanted her to learn something from this. To weather the darkness in hopes of light. But it was not so easy as the little flower made it look.

  “How does the heliotrope know the sun will come up again, after the long night?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps it doesn’t know. Perhaps it just hopes. Here.” He gave it to her. “It is good to have reminders that amid the worst of this world, there is also beauty and goodness.”

  “And hope?”

  “Of course.”

  She smelled it again, taking in the sweet, mild scent. There was good in the world. The children she spent her days with as a governess. This beautiful garden. Mr. Northam—still a mystery, but quickly becoming more of a friend than she’d had in a long time.

  Whatever had happened in his past, it was clear he did not want to talk about it. Perhaps another time she would try again to unmask him. He’d brought her here to brighten her day, not darken it. The least she could do was pretend he was succeeding.

  They were alone in this small and secluded part of the garden. She turned her face to the sky. To the sun and the warmth and the light. “This is a wonderful place. You were right. This is just what I needed.”

  “Good. I’m very glad.” He watched her for a few moments. “You are not what I expected, Miss Wood, when I sent you that letter of summons.”

  “How so?” Though he was not alone in his surprise, she thought as she recollected what she’d expected the barrister prosecuting a murderer to be like.

  He shrugged. “I expected, perhaps, a little more tightly bound hair. Pursed lips. A disposition for severity, I suppose. I was not prepared for a woman of such beauty. Such gentle goodness, but also such strength.”

  “You are confusing me with someone else.” For none of those things described her. “You flatter me, I think.”

  “On the contrary, I could not be more sincere.”

  G
oodness. What game was he playing at now? She looked up at him, at his gaze that seemed to go beyond her dress, past her skin and blood and bones, until he saw completely through her.

  Take heed, her heart cautioned. But his eyes were so soft upon her, and he stood so near that she could smell the scent of his shaving soap. Like lavender. Or perhaps it was merely the bank of lavender they walked beside.

  It was as though he had a kind of power that drew her to him, no matter how much her practical self warned her. Like a net, and she knew she should swim away, but it kept tugging her in.

  “You are not what I expected either,” she said, ignoring the warnings in her heart.

  “How so?” he asked, turning her own words back upon her.

  “You’re not wearing a wig, for one thing.”

  He laughed out loud. “You haven’t seen me in court.”

  “You are not older than the Magna Carta.”

  “How can you be sure? Perhaps I am immortal.”

  She raised her eyebrow at him. “Are you calling yourself a god?”

  He laughed again. “No, indeed. Quite the opposite, I assure you.”

  She shook her head. “You forget. I’ve met the opposite, and he is nothing like you.”

  He replied with sudden candor, “Coming from you, that is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she kept walking.

  A mother—or more likely a governess—with a flock of children rounded the corner. Two girls laughed as they skipped along, holding hands and chanting a familiar rhyme. “The moon shines bright, the stars give a light—”

  One of the girls tripped and spilled into the bank of lavender. The other burst into laughter.

  Mr. Northam chuckled quietly. He turned his gaze back to Marianne, and his hand came up, landing softly on her cheek. His eyes drifted to her lips as he finished the rhyme, “And I may kiss a pretty girl, at ten o’clock at night.”

  Marianne looked back at the children, then down at her feet, then over her shoulder toward the garden path. Anywhere to keep her burning cheeks hidden by her bonnet. He had finished the rhyme properly, but the way he spoke the words . . . so softly. Intimately.