A Holiday in Bath

by Julie Daines

  “Ormonde!” He stopped and looked at her, tongue lolling. Caroline smiled, for in spite of the glove, his quivering excitement was unfailingly cheering. She’d have gone mad this last year without him.

  The early hour spared them the stares of genteel strollers in stately parade to the Pump Room. Caroline wasn’t looking forward to joining that, but Bath was less stuffy this early, with society abed and the sunrise making the houses blush. Watching a hopping warbler with yellow patches, Caroline forgot her dislike of this mannerly paradise, quaint and clockwork in rules and calendar.

  The bird, a cheeky, fat fellow, lighted on a railing, rousing Ormonde to frantic complaint. Startled, the bird flew off, but Ormonde didn’t hush. Fearing he’d soon wake whoever slumbered behind the nearest windows, Caroline hurried him around the corner, slipping into a long, unladylike stride.

  She stepped off the flagway and onto the street, in case Ormonde was tempted to snuffle the sleepy-eyed dairymaid walking the other way. Behind them walked a blue-coated physician with serious, slanting brows. Except for the bird, no one paid her and Ormonde any mind. Ormonde dashed left and right, but mostly onward to the Circus, then the Crescent, and on to the park, where he would make certain the squirrel and bird populations were properly routed.

  “One of these days you must acquire some manners,” Caroline murmured. Ormonde yipped happily in reply, straining for the trees. Caroline let out a chuckle. “Grandmama will like you better when you learn to be more sedate.” Perhaps that was hoping for miracles.

  He was too flighty to come off the lead this morning, so Caroline let him tug her about the park. Ormonde slighted an elm, then charged after a squirrel who’d dared reveal his presence. Caroline was warm beneath her cloak and probably red in the cheeks when she saw her bootlace straggling onto the grass. She bent to tie it, fumbling in her haste. Ormonde’s ears pricked.

  “Stay,” Caroline warned, but he ignored her. Caroline groped for the leash just as Ormonde bounded across the grass, the lead slithering behind him.

  “Ormonde! Come!”

  As ever, it failed to check him. Soon he’d be out of sight. Caroline broke into a run. She was only halfway across the lawn when he vanished into the trees.

  When she reached them, there was no sign of him. “Ormonde!”

  She found two morning walkers startled by her shouting, but no brown-and-white dog, not even by a patch of toadstools, organisms Ormonde usually found reason to attack. Anxious now, she hurried around trees and hedges, calling without real hope. He could have run through the park altogether and found his way to the river or—

  There. In the shade of a tree, Ormonde yelped and wriggled in a man’s arms.

  “Let go of my dog!” Caroline said, marching towards him. Instead of setting Ormonde onto the ground, he bent his head and whispered something. Ormonde went still.

  “This scrap’s yours?” the man asked.

  “Yes. I’ve been looking everywhere.” She stretched out her hands, but Ormonde nuzzled deeper into the man’s shoulder, leaving white hairs on his coat.

  He chuckled, speaking to the dog. “I know she’s lovely, but are you acquainted with her?”

  “He only occasionally sits on command,” Caroline said, terse and blushing. “Answering questions is beyond him.”

  “How can I be sure he’s yours?”

  Caroline frowned. He couldn’t mean it. Yes, there were creases around his mouth and eyes, but she couldn’t tell if they were precursors to a teasing smile. His firm chin and the thread of white scar barely visible above one eye made her think he wasn’t joking. “Who but his owner would want him?” she asked, exasperated.

  “I’m rather taken with him. Seems a capital fellow.” He bent his head to the dog again. “How about it? Will you come have a snooze on my hearth?” As he spoke, he stroked Ormonde’s ears, eliciting a whine of ecstasy.

  Time to put a stop to this. “A kind offer, but—”

  He glanced up at her with an amused smile. “I didn’t think I was inviting you. However, if you’re willing—”

  Caroline choked, unable to reply.

  “She blushes perfectly,” he murmured to Ormonde. “If she really belongs to you, then perhaps—”

  “Let me have him.” If she wasn’t reasonably certain he was thinking about having her on his hearthrug, she wouldn’t hesitate to snatch Ormonde. As it was, she couldn’t touch him, let alone wrestle away her dog. “Please.”

  “His name is Ormonde?” the man asked. “Where did that come from?”

  The rapid switch made her pause. “Named for James Butler, first Duke of Ormonde.” Kit had liked the idea of naming the dog after a statesman, and Caroline hadn’t wanted to call him Pitt.

  “And you want him back, even though he’s so faithless? Careful now. You might get your heart broken.”

  Caroline’s eyes narrowed. What could he know of broken hearts? “I’m not afraid, I assure you,” she said coolly. “He’s young and high-spirited is all. My brother gave him to me.”

  His expression changed to a rueful grin. “I should have known this dog would get me in trouble. Will your brother call, offering me a choice of swords or pistols?”

  Caroline’s brows lifted in mock astonishment. “I hardly think so. I’ll forget this by luncheon, so long as you give back my dog.”

  His smile turned calculating. “Is that a promise?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “Then you may have him. If you pay his ransom first.”

  Ransom? Caroline felt her eyes go round—maddening, when she was resolved to exhibit only icy disdain.

  He shifted Ormonde to one side. His joints—hips, knees, little fingers, even—moved with a swagger. “I’ll give you this dog. For a kiss.”

  Not a peck on her forehead, Caroline was sure. In the thirty-one months of their engagement, Robert had never been this bold.

  “Only because you swore you wouldn’t tell,” he explained. “It’ll be our secret. I mustn’t soil my reputation.”

  His reputation? Caroline seethed.

  He lowered his voice, glancing left and right. “You see, I have a sister. If she ever heard, she’d roast me, but you looked too charming. I couldn’t resist.”

  Shameless flattery, and yet . . . the way he looked at her, she believed him. He’d taken an immediate fancy to her—an experience entirely new. She felt unbalanced, ready to squeak, blush, or beg, but there was vitality running through her too. She’d cling to that. Caroline raised her chin. “First, give me the dog.”

  “For a moment, I thought you’d say he wasn’t worth it.”

  She’d surprised him. She nearly laughed, it felt so marvelous. “Only just. My dog, if you please.”

  “You won’t cut and run?” He looked younger now, the raffish edge gone.

  Caroline shook her head.

  “Then I’ll take you at your word.”

  He released Ormonde into her arms and smiled expectantly, forcing Caroline to duck her chin and drop her eyes.

  “This is secret,” she said, playing for time. He stepped close—close enough she could sew on his coat buttons if she’d cared to. The top one hung a little loose. “I can’t do it when you’re watching me,” Caroline whispered.

  His lips parted, and his eyes fell shut. Released from paralysis, Caroline lifted up Ormonde, who lapped his wet tongue all the way up the man’s lean cheek.

  He recoiled in surprise, but Caroline was already running, Ormonde yipping as he bounced in her arms. Behind her, the man broke into laughter. Caroline threw a glance back—he was wiping his cheek with his handkerchief. “Serves you right! Next time, be more specific!”

  He said something, but her heartbeat was too loud to make out the words. She didn’t stop or look back again until she reached the house on Camden Place. The street was quiet, nearly all the window shades drawn. She was back in the land of rules again, straight and strict and immutable as geometry.

  A safe place to be, she thought.

  *
* *

  Jack Edwards watched her go. Yes, she was a fine one, but that did not give him permission to flirt with her. He couldn’t have thought she’d really kiss him. He might allow himself to imagine questionable things about lovely young ladies, but such games weren’t supposed to intrude on reality.

  In the normal way of things, he was more disciplined—he was the respectable one in his family! Laura must be rubbing off on him; his sister was a rogue if there ever was one. If she’d witnessed this, she’d laugh herself to tears and tell him he had an unfortunate touch. “Kissed by a dog! You can do better,” she’d say.

  Well, she hadn’t seen, and he’d never tell her. No one but the lady herself and Ormonde would know.

  His walk had tired him. It was time to go home. The distance was far enough his ears should stop burning before he arrived. Shrugging off his self-consciousness—which didn’t work, but it was worth a try—Jack set off in the opposite direction, going around the trees until he emerged in front of Bath’s Royal Crescent. The house was on the left. Quietly, Jack let himself inside, hoping for solitude. No good. Henrietta Arundel—his hostess—was sitting on the bottom stair with her middle son on her lap.

  “You’re out early this morning.” She didn’t look up. Little William frowned, deep in concentration as his mother buckled his brown leather shoe. Henrietta never cared about dignity. It was one of many things Jack liked about her. She was a beautiful woman, but the strain of the last month had left her pale and tired.

  “I like mornings,” Jack said. “But may I say I think this hour too early for you?”

  “Nonsense.” She finished with the buckle and slid William off her lap. “I wasn’t ill. You don’t fill out your clothes yet.”

  Jack smiled. Useless to remind her of the long hours she’d nursed first her sick children and then him. The influenza had been bad this year.

  “I promised Laura you’d rest.” Few women could command from the stair-carpet, but Henrietta managed it.

  “I’m in no danger,” Jack murmured.

  “Not anymore.” Henrietta laced her fingers together and slid them over her knees. “You were gone an awfully long time. Still not sleeping?”

  “Not well,” Jack confessed. “I’m up with the sun, but that’s long been my habit, so I won’t have you writing to Laura. She worries too much as it is.”

  When he’d succumbed to the infection just as Henrietta’s boy William finally turned the corner, his sister had feared the worst—and it had been a near thing. Worn down by the fight to save Henrietta’s children, he’d been delirious for days. Laura, due to deliver her second child and quarantined in the next county, had gone wild with worry. Once Jack was well enough to get out of bed, she insisted he come with the Arundels to convalesce in Bath. It was a course he didn’t mind recommending to patients, but for himself . . .

  There was work to do in Suffolk. Nine had died while he’d been ill.

  Jack wasn’t a new doctor. A surgical apprenticeship in His Majesty’s Navy, his studies in Edinburgh, another two voyages as a naval physician, and three years as a country doctor had taught him to save those he could and not to blame himself too much for the others. But surely some of those nine would have recovered had he been there to tend them, instead of alternately sweating and shivering in a sickbed himself. If he’d rationed his strength . . . Well, Henrietta’s oldest, Laurence, would have survived, but not William or the baby.

  He should have sent for another doctor to help at the start of the outbreak. Lord Fairchild, Henrietta’s father and Laura’s father-in-law, had sent for one immediately once Jack fell ill. It had only taken a day and a half to bring Dr. Fielding to the district, but with so many patients in crisis, it hadn’t been soon enough, though Fielding was a gifted physician. Jack liked him, enough to leave him in charge when Laura, backed by her husband and all his family, insisted he accompany the Arundels to Bath. Jack was tired, but coming here felt like cheating. He ought to face the families he’d failed. Nine new graves in the churchyard—eight, he corrected, for Mrs. Larkin’s baby hadn’t yet been christened. Jack hadn’t asked where they’d buried the little girl, knowing they’d be taking it hard.

  Time enough for that. Fielding would manage things, and if Jack hadn’t been so convinced he was invincible in the first place . . . Henrietta said one of the reasons he must come here was so he could break his habit of overwork. So far all he’d done was nurse a tendency for brooding. But how did one apologize for a failure like that?

  “Maybe you should have walked longer,” Henrietta said. “Since you’ve come in, you’ve turned sad again. I was encouraged when I first saw you. You had your smile back. Of course, before you returned I was afraid you’d fainted in the street.”

  “Was I gone that long?” Jack asked.

  “You were. And Andrews said you took no breakfast. Will you have some now? I expect it’s gone cold, but we could—”

  “Later. I’m not hungry. I’ll take a look in the nursery. Where’s Percy?”

  “Feeding the baby.” Taking William’s hand, she helped him up the steps one at a time. Jack followed her. The nursery was on the second floor. William had only managed the first flight of stairs before but conquered all of them today.

  “What a champion!” Jack said to encourage him. “I’d say you’re ready for an airing, wouldn’t you?”

  William, older than his years, merely nodded.

  Inside the nursery, Henrietta’s husband, Lord Percy Arundel, was reading classics to his oldest son while balancing the baby and a feeder. He broke off long enough to glance at them and smile. “Halfway done!”

  “The milk or Thucydides?” Jack asked.

  Percy proffered the half-empty bottle. “We’ve still got a pile of history to go.” Seeing his wife’s severe look, he added, “I’m only summarizing.”

  Laurence, in most ways a typical lad of six, had taken the book and turned back the pages to study a tinted engraving. His other white, fine-boned hand clutched a lead grenadier. He needed an airing too, from the look of it.

  Jack listened at the boys’ chests and counted pulses—William liked to help hold his watch. In the erratic gaiety of the nursery, he forgot his earlier blue mood and the madness that preceded it. When at last Henrietta and Percy relinquished the children to the nursery maid, they trooped down together to the drawing room, Henrietta talking over her shoulder at Jack, linked to her husband’s arm. Jack suggested they take a drive in the afternoon, and the children could have a short runabout.

  “What happened on your walk this morning?” Henrietta asked. Jack nearly stumbled.

  “Nothing,” he said, knowing his reaction had already given him away.

  “You looked better than I’ve seen in a long time,” she insisted. “And you’ve never been one of those types who extol the restorative powers of nature.”

  “Maybe he is now,” Percy said. “It’s a fine day.”

  Henrietta dismissed her husband's reasoning with a look, settled herself into a chair and tucked up her feet. “What made you happy?”

  “I enjoyed my walk. That’s all.” Embarrassing to admit the rest and besides, he’d told Ormonde’s owner he’d keep it secret.

  * * *

  Ignoring her husband’s warnings, Henrietta probed again. “Jack, you know I’ll just keep asking.” Beside her, Percy’s face made silent apology.

  “Fine! There was a young lady. I helped her find her dog,” Jack admitted, hoping to lay the matter to rest. Confessing that much seemed acceptable.

  A huge smile spread over Henrietta’s face. “And?”

  Behind her, Percy sketched a line across his throat.

  “That’s all. She was lovely, with quite an endearing dog, but I never learned her name.” Jack pulled a random book from the shelves and sat down on the sofa—Introduction to the Study of Bibliography. Oh God.

  “What does she look like?” Henrietta asked.

  Percy cleared his throat. “My love, I think Jack prefers to l
eave the subject alone. He’s on holiday.”

  Henrietta snorted but said nothing.

  Resigned to his penance, Jack opened the thick volume to a “succinct account of the different substances employed for manuscripts and printed books,” beginning with stone. If nothing else, he’d learned today that Percy’s books, and ladies wandering through the park, were both best left alone.

  * * *

  Henrietta had detected Percy’s potential as a husband from the very first, and nothing in their years of marriage had caused her to revise this assessment. Percy was surprised, the following morning, when she asked him to escort her to the Pump Room, but he didn’t quibble—one of many proofs of his sterling worth.

  “You’re scheming again,” he said as he took her by the arm to descend the front steps.

  “Nonsense.” The row of houses arced away from her, pale as pearl against the blue sky and the lovingly tended green. “Isn’t this lovely? Aren’t you glad we came?”

  Percy ignored this. “Should I worry for myself or for Jack?”

  “There is absolutely nothing to worry about,” Henrietta assured him.

  “As bad as that?” He chuckled.

  “It’s simply a matter of improving probabilities. I’m conducting an experiment.”

  “Yes, with people.”

  “That’s the best kind,” she told him.

  “Just what are you trying to do?”

  It was only a quarter mile from the Royal Crescent to the Upper Assembly Rooms, according to the agent who’d let them the house. Henrietta knew her husband for a good walker, venturing out daily to clear his thoughts. He lagged today, moving well under his usual pace, wanting an explanation from her. Very well. “I want to flush out this young lady Jack met in the park.”

  “We’re bloodhounds today? Bath’s a small place, but I think our chances of finding one girl are small. We don’t even know what she looks like.”