A Holiday in Bath

by Julie Daines

  * * *

  And so they were. Doctor Lord Edmund Parker and his wife and helpmate cared for the elderly and infirm in the house at number twelve while raising a brood of six children in the upper stories and enjoying visits from their many relatives. They followed their dreams into contented old age, still together at number twelve, even happier than Lucy predicted.

  THE END

  Click on the covers to visit Caroline’s website:

  About Caroline Warfield

  Traveler, poet, librarian, technology manager—award-winning author Caroline Warfield has been many things (even a nun), but she is, above all, a romantic. Having retired to the urban wilds of eastern Pennsylvania, she reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows while she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

  She is the author of the Dangerous Series, set in the Regency Era, and the Children of Empire Series, set in the late Georgian/early Victorian era. The second series follows the lives of the children of characters in the first.

  You can find her at www.carolinewarfield.com

  The Fine Art of Kissing in the Park

  By Jaima Fixsen

  Chapter One

  The house in London belonged to Grandmama, but the place looked more like Christopher’s every year. Thick political treatises had crowded out the traveler’s accounts in the library, and modest Sheraton furniture supplanted the unseemly baroque. It was an elegant, stylish place—home now to both of them.

  Neither Caroline nor her elder brother had reason to expect Grandmama’s arrival that wintry evening, though Caroline, who’d advised against decorator depredations, welcomed Grandmama with a clearer conscience, beckoning her into the hall away from the icy draft. “Come inside,” she said. “You must be half froze!”

  Grandmama, hugging her furs close, couldn’t clasp Caroline’s outstretched hands, but she offered a thin-lipped smile.

  “We didn’t expect you in town.” Christopher was too flummoxed to offer more than the obvious.

  “Clearly not.” Grandmama frowned at the Japanese marquetry box perching where her bust by Nollekens used to be. “I’d like my room, please.” Behind her, the housekeeper’s face took on the expression of an agony-stricken saint.

  Caroline moved to the rescue. “It will take a few moments, I’m afraid. Come warm yourself in the drawing room.” Over Grandmama’s shoulder, Caroline met the housekeeper’s eyes, signaling her to remove Christopher’s things from the principal bedchamber. Hurry, she mouthed.

  Of course Grandmama understood. “You may supervise the unpacking of my things, Caroline. I’d like a word with your brother.”

  Excluded by a firmly closed door, Caroline didn’t hear their discussion. She turned her attention to other problems. The sheets in the linen cupboard were acceptable, so long as Grandmama never discovered Christopher used better ones. Caroline could bring over the flowers from her own dressing table. With the card left off, Grandmama wouldn’t know they were from Robert—which would be best, as she’d never taken warmly to Caroline’s fiancé. Caroline fetched the fussy ornaments Grandmama loved, lately relegated to the guest chambers, swept up her brother’s remaining books, and headed downstairs to hurry along the hot water bottles—just as Christopher emerged from the drawing room muttering under his breath about Grandmama’s profanity.

  “I always said you shouldn’t take her room, Kit,” Caroline reminded him.

  “She hasn’t been to London in years! Why she must descend upon us now—”

  Caroline hushed him and steered him into the library, where he could solace his pride with books and a brandy. “Let me handle Grandmama. You must get ready for this evening.” Caroline didn’t want anything upsetting him.

  She settled Kit at his desk, shelved the books that had been in Grandmama’s room—organized by topic, year, and author—and found her grandmother seated in the armchair nearest the drawing room fire, waving her lacquered stick at Caroline’s dog. Caroline dashed forward, scooping a growling Ormonde off the hearthrug.

  “In all the bustle I forgot Ormonde likes to come in here.”

  If Grandmama had struck him . . . Caroline ran her hands over his forelegs and head, and he stopped quivering, going soft in her arms. In the next days, she’d have to keep him and Grandmama away from each other.

  “When are you going to train him? He’s a menace.”

  “He’s still a baby.” Caroline sat on the sofa, holding her dog close. “I imagine he takes exception to your shoe buckles.” They flashed in the firelight on the toes of Grandmama’s outmoded, high-heeled shoes. “What brings you to London?” Caroline asked.

  “John Coachman and these catastrophically bad roads.” Grandmama recrossed her ankles, and Ormonde tensed.

  Rubbing the spaniel’s belly, Caroline set to work soothing them both. Grandmama only snorted when Caroline reported Kit’s selection to two parliamentary committees—in his first term!—but Caroline guessed she was pleased. Grandmama was less pleased when Caroline insisted she warm her insides with tea instead of brandy. Nevertheless, she accepted a steaming cup, grumbling that she could hold her liquor very well and that she’d never met such a pack of insufferables as the younger generation. Caroline served her a slice of frosted lemon cake, which soon vanished. Her own piece, she crumbled into bits and fed them one by one to Ormonde.

  Informed that Kit’s initiatives in the house included a water closet and a closed stove in the kitchen, Grandmama gave signs of reluctant approval.

  “And a new chef,” Caroline added. “French. You’ll enjoy the way he prepares the poultry.”

  “Still entertaining the world? You shouldn’t let your brother make free with your money.”

  Caroline wouldn’t restart this old argument. “I like hostessing. Our parties are as much for my sake as Kit’s.”

  “Does that stuffed shirt of yours often dine here?”

  “I don’t know who you mean,” Caroline lied, unwilling to hear criticism of Robert. If she listened to her grandmother, she’d be waiting for some dashing but pedigreed seventeenth-century cavalier. Such men existed only in novels and old portraits. Caroline had decided long ago that romance was out of fashion. This was the age of reason, and she was no porcelain shepherdess. She had a great deal of affection for Sir Robert Symes, who, if all went well tonight, would soon be a cabinet minister. Besides helping Kit’s career, as Sir Robert’s wife she’d have plenty of meaningful work—dinners, drafting memoranda, perhaps even watching key debates in parliament . . . Robert was a methodical man, but an excellent speaker.

  “Chosen a wedding date yet?”

  “The way you feel about him, I’m surprised you’re always pressing for one,” Caroline returned evenly.

  “After two and a half years, I’m surprised you haven’t forgotten,” Grandmama said. “I would.”

  Caroline ignored this, tickling Ormonde, who was restless.

  Kit joined them once he’d changed his dress for evening, and Caroline took the opportunity to shut her dog in his basket. Grandmama turned sharp again, and Kit, never good at appeasement, only grudgingly performed the courtesies, taxing Caroline’s skill at domestic diplomacy.

  “I’m so pleased with Kit,” she said, hoping to force a smile from Grandmama. “Member for Penryn at the same age as our father.” It meant a good deal to them both.

  “He was a Tory too,” Grandmama said glumly.

  “Wish Kit well, won’t you?” Caroline urged. “It’s not every night your grandson dines with the Prime Minister.”

  Grandmama was less impressed than Caroline had hoped, and positively scowled when a noise in the hall made Kit start for the door saying, “That’ll be Robert.”

  “I’ll be only a moment,” Caroline said and followed her brother. He didn’t hear her silent approach—even if Grandmama’s teetering pumps were st
ill in fashion, Caroline was too tall for anything but flat-soled slippers—and started when she hissed, “You didn’t tell me Robert was coming!”

  “Thought I mentioned it the other afternoon.”

  “I don’t recall it,” Caroline said, falling in beside him.

  Kit shrugged. Robert was ahead of them, standing by the front door. Kit grinned at him. “Think this is it?”

  “Difficult to say.” Robert stretched his neck inside his starched collar.

  “I’ll be thinking of you all night,” Caroline told him. “He wants you to replace Aldridge. I can feel it.”

  Robert took her hands. “I hope so, but one never knows. He might want Kit.”

  “Yes, in a year or two.” She smiled at her brother. Since winning his seat in the election four years ago, he’d moved from the backbenches, but a seat in the cabinet was premature. Robert, a ten-year veteran of the House of Commons, would have this vacancy. She hoped.

  Feeling Robert’s arms stiffening, Caroline freed her hands. After the first moment of greeting, Robert never seemed to know what to do with them, and she didn’t like making him uncomfortable. “Good luck.” She smiled at him.

  He shifted his feet. “If you’re right, we’ll have to set our minds to choosing a wedding date.”

  “I would like that.” Pushing for a date had always seemed lowering, but fresh from Grandmama’s company, with Robert on the brink of success, Caroline couldn’t resist this little nudge.

  “Good idea,” Kit put in. “Our grandmother’s arrived, and if I know anything, she’s been giving Caroline an earful. Doesn’t approve of long engagements.”

  Caroline gave him a sharp look, which he ignored.

  “Upset the countess, have I?” Robert smiled at Caroline sympathetically. “Don’t let her sit up too long. Not healthy at her age. And don’t you wait up either. We’ll be late.”

  Keeping back a warning not to broach too many bottles—she’d learned politicians accomplished nothing without sufficient quantities of wine—Caroline let her brother plant a kiss on her cheek on his way out the door. Robert hesitated, his eyes on the hat clutched in his restless fingers, so Caroline leaned forward, making it easy for him. His lips brushed her hairline. “I’ll come see you in the morning,” he murmured. “We’ll get things settled.”

  “I’d like that,” Caroline said again.

  Robert donned his hat. “Until tomorrow, then. Give my regards to Lady Lynher.”

  Grandmama wouldn’t want them, but Caroline kept silent.

  “Come on, Robert!” Responding to Kit’s impatient summons, Robert bowed and followed him into the cold. The draft swirled around Caroline’s ankles, prickling her bare arms. There would be frost tonight.

  In spite of the chill, Caroline lingered in the hall. Let him do well. One wish would serve both men. Though she knew it was foolish to hope too much, she wanted the post for Robert and for Kit to make a good impression tonight. If her father were still living and still in politics, Kit’s progress would be easier—but then, his ambitions might be milder too, though he’d always been conscious of his position as the son of a younger son.

  If all went as planned, tomorrow morning Kit would grin at her as Robert fiddled with his watch fob, blushing as he shared the good news. Perhaps a wedding as soon as February . . .

  Ormonde barked, protesting his imprisonment. She’d better let him out. It would give her an excuse to cut short the coming tête-à-tête with Grandmama.

  “Did he kiss you good night?” Grandmama asked. Reading the answer in Caroline’s prim lips and arching eyebrows, she snorted again. “A peck on the cheek,” she said disgustedly.

  “Forehead.” Caroline bent to free Ormonde, who frisked past her and ran a circuit of the room.

  “Even worse. Man’s a dead bore.”

  “Please remember I’m engaged to Sir Robert.” Caroline pursued Ormonde behind the chair.

  “Trust me, I’ve tried to forget. Are you sure he hasn’t?” Grandmama drew her feet in just as Ormonde dashed by. Caroline caught him and lifted him up.

  Two and a half years was a long time, but then Grandmama wouldn’t understand. She’d never forgiven Caroline’s father for turning Tory or understood Kit’s ambitions to succeed him in the House of Commons. Why waste money on elections when, for much less, you could buy a commission in the army?

  Caroline petted Ormonde’s ears, giving herself time to find calm, watching a chunk of coal drop off the grate, its orange glow fading. Kit liked Robert, Uncle Warren liked Robert, she liked Robert. Grandmama’s approval was hardly necessary. “I will like being married to a cabinet minister,” Caroline told her. “And it will be useful for Kit.” Grandmama would understand that. She might read novels, but she’d made a dynastic marriage herself. “I’ll take Ormonde outside, put him to bed in my room, and then you and I can have a game of cards?”

  As she’d predicted, Grandmama accepted this program. In the interest of peace, Caroline let Grandmama beat her.

  * * *

  Kit found her in the early morning, chalk-faced with smudges under his eyes. It was long before breakfast and unlike him to intrude in her room. Caroline sat up and pulled the sheets around her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, Caroline.”

  “He was passed over?” Caroline sighed, telling herself it was no good cutting up over it. Resigned, she climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. “Perhaps next time.” Her voice was steady, her eyes on the tying of her sash.

  Kit shook his head. “No, they gave him the post.”

  “Then why—” Caroline looked up. Her brother looked quite ill. “Ought you to sit down?”

  Kit slumped into her chair. He was rumpled, stubble darkening his chin, wearing the same clothes he had left in. Just returned, then.

  “I take it you both drank too much?”

  He bit his lip. “Got a trifle out of hand,” he finally admitted. “Went on long after dinner. I should have . . .”

  Caroline folded her hands.

  “John Cavendish began it. Rode a horse up the front stairs of the club. Robert tried and—”

  “He’d never do such a thing.” Robert was entirely too sensible for pranks like that.

  “Said he’d do it. There was no stopping him.” Awful pleading filled Kit’s eyes. And pity, sharp enough to make her look away.

  Caroline pulled the neck of her dressing gown closer, blocking the cold. “Is he badly hurt?” She must go to him, if he wasn’t too embarrassed.

  Kit swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s dead, Caroline. Neck broken.”

  She shook her head, dimly aware it was increasingly hard to breathe. She must have misheard. “Broken?” Dead was an unthinkable word to pronounce. She smoothed her hands down her dressing gown.

  “It was so sudden. Nothing to be done.” Kit’s eyes fixed on hers, making it impossible to look away or keep disbelieving him. Certainty settled on her slowly, but it was too heavy to shift. Her empty hands were clumsy, too thick and stiff to move.

  “I see.”

  Robert looked away, walking shakily to the window. “I’m so sorry, Caroline.”

  “Not your fault,” Caroline replied mechanically. Robert would never be a cabinet minister. Or her husband. He was gone. “Thank you for telling me.” They were her words, but they sounded like they came from someone else.

  Chapter Two

  Sixteen months later

  Caroline was not pleased with the town of Bath. She was not pleased with the weather, though the view from the windows showed a clear spring sky. She was not pleased with the neat row of houses across the way or this bland one they’d rented on the corner of Camden Place and nowhere.

  If Robert were living and she were his wife, she’d have purpose, place, and presence. But Robert was gone, the time for mourning past. Unattached at age twenty-four, she’d become a liability, a spinster. She’d hoped to find a match this spring in London. Kit had promised, but Uncle Warren had overr
uled, saying, “Someone has to stay with Grandmama.”

  Someone meant her, especially from Uncle Warren, and Kit had agreed. If Caroline didn’t go to Bath, Grandmama would ambush them in London, and he couldn’t very well keep her out of her own house. It wasn’t convenient for him to be troubled with her just now. Caroline could rejoin him in the fall or next year’s Season. She’d be twenty-five then—a fact that only accelerated her scattering thoughts.

  Spinsterhood wasn’t a terrible fate in London, where she could hope for a remedy. In Bath, you couldn’t step anywhere without meeting a dozen of the tribe: toothy ladies with intellectual hobbies going three times a week to the library, jilts and jilted trying to live down the infamy, girls who were girls no longer, having missed their chance. Had she? No. She had sufficient fortune to buy a man, if it came to that. But she wouldn’t. Robert had been an ambitious man, one she’d been proud of until the humiliating debacle of his death. Unfortunately, there were fewer acceptable choices at her age.

  Times like this, she wished it were possible to explain to Robert how she’d been wronged. Youth had slipped by, and she, falsely secure in her lengthy engagement, hadn’t troubled to think what would happen if the thing didn’t come off. Only concern for her marketable assets kept her from grinding her teeth.

  She had no appetite for breakfast. “I’m going to walk Ormonde,” she told Grandmama and collected Ormonde’s lead. Ormonde himself was trickier to find, but Caroline discovered him at last behind a tall-backed sofa, dismembering one of Grandmama’s gloves. Pocketing it for discreet disposal later, she knotted the lead to his collar, and he took off like a rocket, barely waiting for the knot to be tied, slowing only to a gambol once they were outside the house.

  Mincing around a puddle, he spotted a shiny black beetle, ate it, then anointed the nearest lamp post. He sniffed every one of the others until he spotted a scrap of paper lying in the street and lunged. Caroline urged him forward with a tug on the leash. He’d spent too much time yesterday in his basket because Grandmama hadn’t wanted him loose in the carriage.