Amy Lake (22 page)

“Lord Davies,” I said, and this time I curtseyed. 

“My lady,” he said, with an answering bow.  “I wonder if you might accompany me on a drive around the town?  I understand that the Royal Crescent is particularly fine—”

“’Tis,” volunteered Mrs Baxter.

“—as well as Queen Square.  I would much appreciate your guidance.” 

The viscount wished to take me for a
drive
.

I was nonplussed. 

It was as if no quarrel had ever occurred between us.  Lord Davies seemed in excellent spirits, and was certainly dressed for the activity he proposed.  He smiled at me as if we were the best of friends.

“You go along, dearie,” said Mrs Baxter.  “The girls and I will speak to Edward about dinner.”

“Of . . . of course,” I said.  “Let me fetch my shawl.”

* * * *

“And who is this Edward?” asked Lord Davies.

It was the most beautiful of late summer days.  We were ensconced in a fine high-perch phaeton, drawn by two.  I had no idea where he had obtained such a vehicle, since it was of light construction, without a top, and I couldn’t imagine driving it all the way from London, but Lord Davies seemed entirely at his ease.  I reminded myself to relax.  The viscount had his team well in hand, of course, but of late I was more used to walking. 

“Umm?  Edward?  Oh, yes,” I said.  “Edward Baxter is our cook.”

“A cook!  And he is Mrs Baxter’s . . . ?”

“Son.”

“Ah.”

By this point we had driven the length of Great Pulteney Street, and crossed the Avon on the Pulteney Bridge, which was quite a novelty at the time, with shops built onto the structure of the bridge itself. 

Neither of us seemed inclined to renew our previous argument.  But Lord Davies did ask about Aunt Sophie, and as we made our way into central Bath I explained the story, from first to last; my one childhood memory of my aunt, the lack of cordial relations between her and my father, and not omitting the recent discovery of her marriage and widowhood.  ’Twas so easy to talk to him that eventually I realized I was babbling on and on, and I began to worry that he was either bored, or paying entirely too much attention to the disgraceful adventures of the Knowles family.  Perhaps I would not be the best sister for Carys and Isolde after all.

“It must have been quite a scandal,” he said, confirming my fears.

I sighed.  “Our family seems to have had our share.  First my grandfather—”

“So I suppose it is not to be wondered that your father is rather a stickler for convention.”

I thought about this, and laughed a little.  “Yes.  I can see that he would be.”

Our conversation—or this very personal aspect of it—ended then, as we drove past Queen Square, and I began my task as a guide.  Aunt Sophie’s tutelage stood me well, in this regard; one could not walk the town as often as I had in her company and not picked up a considerable trove of information.  Lord Davies asked the expected questions, and we both much admired the Palladian architecture of the
messieurs
Wood, as lovely then as it is now.  I had relaxed sufficiently to have nearly forgotten my quarrel with the gentleman, and spoke at some length of the warm, honey-colouring of Bath stone and its addition to the elegance of Bath’s design.

“Aunt Sophie says—” I said, intending to mention her one complaint, the mixing of Greek orders in column construction.

“Ah, yes,” said the viscount, interrupting.  I glanced up at him in surprise.  “Your aunt.  And you say that one day she simply got up and left?”

Oh, dear.  Caught off guard and flustered, I was only able to manage a few words.  “Well, she loves Florence you see, and—”

“Without warning.”

We were passing from Gay Street toward Brock.  The beautiful crescents of the King’s Circus went unnoticed and unremarked as I fought my temper.

And lost.  “What business is it of yours,” I said, turning again to Lord Davies with what I hoped was a stern expression, “when and where my aunt chooses to travel?”

“She left an unmarried miss in charge of a household, and your reputation must always concern me.”

I believe he regretted these words the moment they were out, as I saw a fleeting expression—was it rue?—pass over his face.  But too late.

“My reputation.” I said.  Quietly.  Flatly.

“I beg your pardon, I should not have expressed is thus.  But—”

It should go without saying that my reaction sprang a great deal from my own insecurities.  My reputation was, in fact, on shaky ground.  If the London
ton
knew of my present whereabouts, if someone chose to drag up the old gossip from a generation past—well, it could materially affect my standing in society.  ’Twas true that I cared less and less about that, and could see myself living in Bath for some time.  Perhaps forever.  Perhaps I would have no choice. 

But more to the point, I was in love with the Viscount of Cardingham.  Oh, yes, I admit it.  I was afraid that he did not reciprocate these feelings, I was afraid that his interest in me, if he still had any, was drawn from the unromantic well of family advantage.  

’Twould be unbearable to be his wife—but not his beloved.

He had come to Bath—I did not yet know of the journey into Cumbria—which should have told me something, but I preferred to insist, fretfully, that his motivation was nothing to flatter me.

“Please take me back to my aunt’s home,” I said, looking straight forward and tilting my nose up fractionally.

“Lady Regina—”

“Please.”

He did.

* * * *

I heard nothing from Lord Davies for several days; or, I should say I heard nothing
directly
from him.  William and Stephen saw the viscount on two occasions in central Bath, and were even able to discover that his lordship had taken rooms in one of the fine establishments on Lansdown Crescent.  So he had not returned to London, and I wished more than ever that I had Cassie to confide in.  I wrote her a long letter detailing the unexpected visit, and my disastrous excursion with Lord Davies in the high-perch phaeton.  I expected to receive her reply within a few days, and to be taken to task for having allowed my mouth to overrun my sense.

As usual.  But Miss Barre’s future recriminations were nothing to the ones I was presently casting upon myself.  I had fallen into our old pattern of quarreling, when the viscount had been nothing but kind.  I wished that propriety allowed me to seek him out and apologize.

He had taken issue with Aunt Sophie’s decision to leave for Florence.  My aunt was certainly not his business, but—

He questioned your reputation.

Yes.  That was distressing, to be sure.

* * * *

On a happier note, flowers were sent to the home each morning, the simple bouquets that the town could provide, with a card saying only
the Viscount of Cardingham
, with no message.  Although the conceit of a ‘flower language’ was not yet in vogue—it was to become all the rage, shortly, in London—I hoped that I did not mistake their meaning.

Lord Davies had not quite despaired of our relationship.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs Baxter one day, after finding me underfoot for the tenth time, “they are lovely flowers.  And if the hill will not come to Mahomet—”

“I suppose,” I said, gloomily.

Later on, when the household had gathered for tea, William reminded me that the viscount was remaining in Bath.

“Must be some reason,” said Stephen.

“You sure won’t be seeing him if you’re always fidgetin’ around here,” said Janie.

“I bet his lordship’s taking the waters, don’t you?” added Alice.

Perhaps they were right.  Perhaps if I visited the pump room, he would chance to be there as well.  So after nuncheon I dressed in the best day-gown I had at my disposal, and my finest bonnet, and set out across the Pulteney Bridge to High Street.  I had spent enough time with my aunt in Bath society that I could find a friend or two, so surely I would not be left to sip—or pretend to sip—a glass of the waters in the awkward solitude of a single miss.

Chapter 44: Lord Davies Visits the Pump Room

Gods, what an appalling drink.

Lord Davies could barely stand the smell of the pump room water, and the taste was worse.  He began to think that William and Stephen had been having some fun at his expense, although ’twas true that the entire town seemed to be here at the King’s bath, walking up and down and talking loudly, so that the whole of their voices made a babble that was unceasing and—to the viscount—a considerable annoyance.  There was only one voice he truly wanted to hear.

“Every day!” William had said.

“Or nearly every!” said Stephen.

Referring, of course, to Lady Regina.  The two young men claimed she swore by the waters, and although this intelligence did not quite jibe with what he understood of the young miss, Talfryn assumed they knew her activities better, here in Bath. 

An orchestra played in the gallery above; not well, in the viscount’s opinion.  He moved to stand by one of Aunt Sophie’s anathematized Corinthian pillars, and scanned the crowd.  Lady Regina was fairly tall, and with her lovely auburn hair—Talfryn had the sudden sense of feeling it under his fingers—she should be easy to identify.

He recognized only a few of the individuals in the room.  Lord and Lady Vendarme were in one corner, talking to a man the viscount did not recognize.  He found himself considering this, wondering if Lady Regina’s presence had been noted here, and whether that information had made its way to London.  Which might not be an issue if only the earl had not claimed her to be recovering at Belvoir Manor.  

Perhaps she might have traveled more recently from Cumbria to Bath.  Lord Davies thought this story made sufficient sense, and he knew he could count on Lord Peter and Lucien Cranfield to spread it about the
ton
.  In the meantime he and Lady Regina could be married by special license, and when they returned to London, society would have long since found some new
on dit
to tut over.

The viscount was accustomed to taking responsibility.  ’Twas his duty to ensure the health of his estate in Cornwall, the wellbeing of his crofters, the happiness of his mother and sisters—

And now, the reputation of Lady Regina Knowles.  He had utterly botched his original proposal of marriage to that young lady, and she had fled to Bath.  The mistake was his to correct.  But if they could never spend five minutes in each other’s company without falling into disagreement—

You might start by not questioning her reputation.

True.  Talfryn sighed, and wondered where he might rid himself of his glass.  There was hardly a table or buffet in evidence on which to set it, which was unfortunate, because he certainly was not going to drink any more of the ghastly water.

There she was.

Lady Regina may have taken pains with her selection of gown that day, and her choice of hat, and paid particular attention to the arrangement of her hair; none of this was in the least noted by Lord Davies.  He saw only her lovely face, her eyes, the quirk of her lips as she surveyed the room—and the slight moue of distaste, quickly hidden, as she glanced down at the glass in her hand.

The viscount almost laughed.  Lady Regina couldn’t bear the stuff either, it seemed.  And ’twas high time he made his hallo.

Chapter 45: Friends

I saw him the moment he entered the pump room.  My face became hot—normally a blush was the least of my problems in dealing with gentlemen—and I turned away, hoping that my cheeks would return to their normal colour after a minute or two of slow, calming breaths.  Thank goodness I had remembered to queue up for a glass of the waters, otherwise I would look very foolish, just standing there.

Waiting.  Alone.

I was wearing a small, close-tied bonnet, which fortunately did not stand out in that company.  I ducked my head slightly and moved to where the crowd was thickest, near the fountain.  Servants moved continually to and fro, bringing new goblets to be filled and removing the old.  For a moment I lost sight of Lord Davies, and nearly fell into a panic.  He wouldn’t leave, would he?  So soon?  My hands were shaking.  I glanced down at the glass, wishing that the smell was less . . .  obtrusive.

“Lady Regina.”

“Oh!”  Having just seen him half-way across the room, I was more than startled, and nearly threw my glass into the air.  Lord Davies took it from me with a soft chuckle.

Damn the man!  Why was he always sneaking up on a person?

“Lord Davies,” I said.  It came out in a croak.

“You are looking well.”

“Thank you,” I said, my mind otherwise a blank. 

“And please call me Talfryn.”

That was something new.  “Then . . . then you may call me Reggie.”

“Reggie?”  He was still smiling, which made him seem younger and even more handsome.

“I always thought that Regina sounded a bit too regal,” I said.

“Not at all,” said the viscount.  “But what is your opinion of ‘Talfryn’?”

“I find it interesting, as a name.  The viscountess said ’tis Welsh, I believe.”  I was babbling away, scarcely aware of my own words. 

“It is.  My mother is proud of her heritage.  The name is said to mean ‘a high hill’.”

“Much better than ‘queen’, I should say.”

We were moving toward the edge of the room as we talked.  He was holding a glass of the waters, and had drunk no more of it than I.  The odor had dissipated, thank goodness, but to drink it now, after it had cooled—
“It is said to aid the digestion,” I told Lord Davies . . . Talfryn.

He looked entirely dubious.  “I believe my digestion wants nothing to do with such assistance.”

I couldn’t help it, I grinned.  “Nor mine, I’m afraid.”

“And yet you come here every day.”

No, I do not
, was almost out of my mouth, but I stopped myself.  William and Stephen, I thought; the boys have been at it again.  “A habit of my aunt’s, I’m afraid.  She finds the waters unappealing, but enjoys the company.”  That was true enough, if not quite frank on every particular.