Bath Scandal (2 page)

A day was set on for Gillie’s arrival, the spare room was duly turned out, and a suitable feast prepared. During all the preparations, it was Lord Southam and not Lady Gillian who was uppermost in Mrs. Searle’s mind. How would he look after all these years? Would he still think she was beautiful? She dressed with care in a becoming gown of deep green, to match her eyes. Her ebony hair was lifted from her brow, and fell in a bundle of curls behind. As she primped in front of her mirror, she thought that Lord Southam would not be disappointed in her appearance. He knew time had passed.

As twilight fell, the clatter of a carriage drawing to a halt in front of Mrs. Searle’s house told her the guests had arrived. She took one last look around her elegant saloon, patted her hair, and prepared a welcoming face. The butler appeared at the door and announced, “Lady Gillian Foster and Miss Pittfield.”

Mrs. Searle looked to the doorway, glanced over the ladies’ shoulder for a glimpse of Lord Southam, and saw only vacant space. Then she looked at the ladies. Miss Pittfield wore the impoverished gentlewoman’s regulation costume: a round bonnet and plain pelisse. She was fiftyish, tall, thin, and cross from the strain of travel. Next Mrs. Searle examined Lady Gillian.

The young lady, girl really, looked like a boy dressed up in a bonnet and gown. She was disheveled from travel, but even if her bonnet had not been askew, and her gown unwrinkled, she would still have lacked style. She was a squab of a girl, with undistinguished brown curls, dark brown eyes, a pug nose, and a determined chin. After performing a graceless curtsy, she gave tongue to an obviously rehearsed and unfelt speech.

“Lord Southam sends his regards. It is very kind of you to have me, ma’am. I appreciate it, and I’ll try not to be any trouble.” Then her face, tense with the effort of reciting, gave way to a trembling smile of hope. “Do you have any mounts, ma’am?”

“Mounts?” Mrs. Searle said, casting one last still-hopeful look to the doorway.

“Horses, to ride. Or even to drive,” Lady Gillian added with diminishing interest.

“I ride, but I have only one mount....”

“That’s all right, then.” The round face eased into a not unattractive grin. “Rawl will forward Penny for me. He didn’t like to do it till we found out whether you ride. He’ll pay for her upkeep, of course. I’ll write him tonight and tell him.”

“Gillian!” Miss Pittfield’s sharp voice rapped out. “Mind your manners. The girl is horse-crazy, Mrs. Searle. Always was, always will be.” She turned a sorry eye on her charge. “You look as if you’d walked all the way to Bath, missie. Where can I take her to tidy her up, ma’am?”

“The servants will show you to your rooms. I hope you will both join me for sherry before dinner. We shall dine at seven.”

Mrs. Searle saw them up the stairs before returning to her saloon alone. She looked at the expensive bouquets of flowers gracing the tables, at the fire glowing in the hearth; she thought of the elaborate dinner prepared for Lord Southam, and her heart hardened in anger. She had had Cook scour Bath for a turtle and ordered up a rack of lamb for this tomboy of a girl and her governess! This was
infamous!
Palming off an unwanted duty on her, whom he scarcely knew!

She poured herself a large glass of sherry and drank it quickly. She must not let her Irish temper run away with her. There was—there
must be
—some explanation. Lord Southam was held up at the last moment on some estate business. He would be joining them soon. A pity that tonight’s preparations were wasted and must be redone another time, but still, it was a good investment. It would be a fine thing to be Lady Southam, wife of Lord Southam, with the dark eyes and reckless smile.

Chapter Two

As Lady Gillian’s toilet was in sore need of repair, Mrs. Searle did not expect to see her before seven. This suited the hostess. An hour should be sufficient to recover from her disappointment and meet her guest with composure. In approximately one quarter of that time, the clatter of unladylike steps galloping down the stairs announced the return of Lady Gillian.

“Oh, there you are!” she said in far from ladylike accents when she spotted Mrs. Searle on the sofa. “Have I got time to write to Rawl before dinner? Perhaps you would be kind enough to lend me some paper and a pen. Whoever thought I would be writing a letter the minute I arrived, for in the general way, I never write anything if I can help it.”

“Is something the matter?” Mrs. Searle inquired politely. As her guest replied, the hostess scrutinized Lady Gillian’s toilet. Hair an utter mess. Naturally curly? It looked as if it had been trimmed by a footman and combed with a pitchfork. Her citron gown was too highly garnished for a predeb. That clutter of bows must go. Her manner was unpleasantly abrupt, and her voice was rough. Lemon juice and the constant use of a parasol might bleach those freckles....

“No, what should be the matter? I want to ask Rawl to forward Penny immediately. I brought my riding habits with me, for I made sure I could borrow a mount from time to time if you did not ride. I must remember to ask him to send my tan gloves. I forgot them. What do you ride, ma’am?”

“Just an old gray hacker I’ve had forever.”

Lady Gillian did not wait to be asked what she rode, but rushed on to volunteer the information. “My Penny is not a thoroughbred, either, though there’s good blood in her. Some Welsh pony, with a strain of Arabian. She’s only thirteen hands high, but she has the long, low, straight stride of a thoroughbred.”

Mrs. Searle interrupted this spiel long enough to offer her guest a glass of sherry.

“Could I have an ale instead?” Lady Gillian replied.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any.”

“Perhaps the servants have some in the kitchen. I’ll ask the butler,” she said, and hopped up from her chair.

Since Mrs. Searle was in charge of smoothing out the lady’s rough edges, she decided to begin her duties immediately. “Ale is not served to ladies in this house, Lady Gillian. Lord Southam sent you to me to polish your manners. Let us begin by taking the proper drink for a lady.”

“But I hate sherry!”

“A lady does not hate what is offered in the way of refreshment when she is a guest. If she fears the refreshment will actually make her ill, then she declines politely. She does not suggest an alternative. That is the hostess’s privilege.”

Gillie listened patiently. “What do you suggest, then?”

Mrs. Searle took a sip from her glass unconcernedly and said, “I suggest you wait till dinner, when wine will be served.”

Gillie frowned. She fidgeted a moment, glanced at the clock, and said, “We usually have dinner at six at home.”

“So I would assume. In the country one usually keeps country hours. I shall be serving at seven—a little early tonight, as I thought you might be peckish after your trip.”

“I am starved!”

“A lady is never starved. She is allowed to feel peckish—if she is asked.”

“I expect you and Miss Swann were great friends,” Gillie said with a scowl.

“Miss Swann? Who is that?”

“Did Rawl not tell you? It was Deborah’s idea to send me to you.”

“Deborah Swann! Good gracious, I haven’t heard that name for over a decade. We were at school together. Do you know Deborah Swann?”

“Know her? She lives only a mile away. She is Rawl’s fiancée. It was her idea to pack me off here, to get rid of me.” Gillie failed to notice that her hostess’s face had stiffened to stone. She rattled on, “They tried to match me up with Lord Stuyvesant, as if I’d marry that old rake. He’s at least thirty!”

“That old!” Mrs. Searle said in a chilly tone.

“It seems ancient to me, for I am only seventeen.”

“Time will rectify that. You are young to be looking about for a match yet,” Mrs. Searle said, though her quick mind was canvassing more interesting matters.

“I don’t want to get married. It is all Miss Swann’s idea. She won’t have Rawl till I am out of the house, you see. We are forever coming to cuffs. It is her horrid way of calling me missie that gets my back up, and acting as if she were my mother, only my mama was never so horrid. I hate her.”

“A young lady does not hate anyone, Lady Gillian,” she replied. Yet, if there were to be an exception to that rule, she would not hesitate to nominate Deborah Swann for the role. What a managing creature Deborah had been. And now she had nabbed Lord Southam! How could such a thing have happened?

Gillian crossed her arms and glared. “Then I am not a lady, because I hate Deborah Swann.”

“And she is actually engaged to your brother, you say. Formally engaged?” Mrs. Searle asked, wondering if it was only a straw in the wind.

“Yes, she has the ring and everything. She is forever at the house, poking about and complaining to the servants and Rawl, as if she were already married to him.”

Mrs. Searle digested this with no visible trace of her rancor. “I read some time ago that she was lady-in-waiting to the royal princesses.”

“When she is not complaining, she is boasting of that. And of course her father, who is a member of the cabinet, only they won’t let him have a portfolio. I wonder he doesn’t buy one, since he is supposed to be well greased.”

Lady Searle found a sudden interest in Miss Swann and did not discourage this line of complaints as she knew she ought. “As she is a near neighbor, I expect this match has been in the air since Deborah and your brother were youngsters.” It must have been arranged eons ago by the family. No sane man would willingly offer for Deborah Swann.

“Not at all. It only happened this past year, when the royal princesses sent her home. She is the bossy sort who must be ordering someone around, and since Effie and Alice and I were without a mother, she decided to take us in charge. She convinced Rawl that we had run wild, and now she is engaged to him, but she won’t marry him till I am out of the house. And that is why she sent me to you, to smarten me up so Stuyvesant will have me.”

“Why not London for a Season instead of here?”

“Miss Swann feels the moral climate there is not salubrious. I expect that means she’s afraid Rawl will slip the leash.”

Mrs. Searle realized she had been well and thoroughly taken in and was furious. That nice letter from Southam—probably dictated by Deborah Swann! They were
using
her, shoving this uncouth girl onto her, and she scarcely knew them. After all her plans and preparations, Lord Southam was not coming at all. An extremely troublesome and expensive dinner had been ordered—for this tomboy and her companion.

“Where is Miss Pittfield?” she asked. She determined on the spot that Miss Pittfield would take complete charge of Lady Gillian. As Southam and Deborah had pulled the wool over her eyes and got her agreement to the visit, she would make some nominal effort to smarten Lady Gillian up, but she would not have her whole life turned upside down to oblige Deborah Swann. Lord Southam was not the man she had taken him for if he had let himself be bullocked into an offer by that insufferable lady.

“She didn’t know whether she was supposed to eat with us.”

“Of course she will eat with us. She is your cousin, is she not?”

“A distant cousin. I’ll tell her,” Gillie said, and hopped up from her chair.

“We have servants in this house to perform errands, Lady Gillian. Pray sit down. And don’t jump up again until dinner is announced, if you please.” She took out all her annoyance on poor Gillie. “I can see why Deborah was displeased with your manners at any rate. You behave like a hoyden.”

Mrs. Searle watched as her guest’s boyish face tightened up like a fist. She held her breath, waiting for an outburst of stable language. “Yes, ma’am,” Gillie said, and resumed her seat, where she sat without speaking for five minutes, while Mrs. Searle summoned a servant and sent the message off to Miss Pittfield.

That dame had been awaiting her summons and came below immediately. “Will you have a glass of sherry, Miss Pittfield?” Mrs. Searle said, and till dinner was announced, such conversation as occurred was between the two older ladies, while Gillie tapped her fingers, pulled at her curls, and glanced at regular intervals at the clock.

Miss Pittfield corroborated what Gillie had already said in blunter terms. Lord Southam had no intention of coming personally to Bath. Mrs. Searle swallowed this monstrous news and behaved like a lady for the remainder of the evening, but a lady with a grievance. She would brook no impertinence from Lady Gillian, nor would she curtail her own normal pursuits one iota. She had been taken in, but she would not allow anyone to know just how high her hopes had flown.

There followed a few days of curt civility between the hostess and her guests. The guests were presented to Mrs. Searle’s callers. Gillie found very little amusement in doddering ladies and gentlemen in their thirties and forties. They were also taken to the Pump Room, but as horses were not allowed, Gillie screwed up her nose at the water and asked how soon they could leave. At least on the street one could
see
horses, even if one could not ride them. The city offered challenging riding, with hills all around.

At the end of a week Mrs. Searle had assimilated her anger and adjusted to the situation. She was saddled with a country bumpkin for six weeks, which was the established duration of the visit. At the end of that time she would be going to London, where she would enjoy the Season with Leonard’s aunt, Mrs. Louden. This annual visit was her major treat of the year and much anticipated. Meanwhile she decided to make the best of a bad situation and befriend Lady Gillian.

It was with this Christian thought in mind that she tapped at Gillie’s door. She waited to be asked in, but no voice answered her knock. The girl couldn’t be asleep. They had just returned from Milsom Street ten minutes before. She tapped again, more loudly. When still there was no reply, her vague worry escalated to fear. She turned the knob, fully expecting to see an empty clothespress and a note on the dresser.

To her astonishment she saw a small form crumpled on the bed, head buried in a pillow, sobbing. Her maternal instincts aroused, she hastened forward. “Gillie! What is the matter? Are you ill?” she asked anxiously.