Bath Scandal (3 page)

The brown curls nestled on the pillow shook in a negative. “But what is it, my dear?” Without waiting for an answer, she knew. The child was homesick, and here she had been treating her roughly, never saying a kind word, doing nothing but nag. She felt like a monster. Her hand went out, and she began patting the silky curls, which had the effect of deepening the sobs till the girl’s shoulders shook.

“Come now, you can tell me,” she said in a soft, motherly voice. “Is it my fault, Gillie?
It is!
I’ve been horrid, and it is only my own stupidity that caused this muddle.”

Gillie lifted her head. Moist, red eyes looked a question at Mrs. Searle. “What muddle? What do you mean? It’s not
your
fault.”

Mrs. Searle extended her arms and pulled the girl against her breast. It felt good, to hold someone close, even if it was only this ramshackle child. This must be how a mother felt, all warm and soft and loving. “Tell me all about it, Gillie,” she said in a cajoling way.

“I want to go home,” she said. “I miss Penny and Abe and Elmer. I miss Erne and Alice and Rawl, too.” Gillie began to rub her eyes with her knuckles.

“I know Penny is your mount, but who are Abe and Elmer?”

“The stablehands. They’re my friends. I hoped Rawl would have sent Penny before now. I know something’s happened to her. I
know
it.”

“Nothing has happened. It would take a while for the letter to reach Elmland and for your brother to make the arrangements. You cannot send a mount through the post, you know. Very likely Penny will arrive tomorrow, and we shall go riding.”

Hope blossomed through the tears. “Could we? The hills hereabouts are so lovely.”

“Bath is considered pretty hard riding. I thought we might go west, along the Old Roman Road. I have been missing my rides, too. I have a friend on that road, Lord Horatio Evendon. We shall make him give us tea. Or perhaps ale,” she added with an arch smile. “Lord Horatio brews his own ale, excellent stuff. Would you like that, Lady Gillian?”

“I would like it of all things! You—you called me Gillie before,” she said shyly.

Beatrice realized this forlorn waif wanted affection, friendship, and felt a sudden attraction to her. “That was previous of me. In the emotion of the moment—”

“I liked it!”

“Then you should have asked me to do so before. You are a lady. It is for you to confer that freedom, you must know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Please call me Gillie. It is friendlier. And may I call you Bea, as I hear your friends do?”

“I am so much older, I don’t think . . . Perhaps you could call me Aunt Bea.”

“But you’re not my aunt.”

“A sort of honorary title. Yes, that will do nicely.” She smoothed the girl’s hair back from her forehead. It was surprisingly soft and silky. “We should have something done to this hair. Shall we call in the coiffeur?”

“If you like.”

“You will want a bit more style for the ball. There is a cotillion ball at the Upper Rooms tomorrow evening.” She had been feeling guilty about Gillian and planned to take her on this outing. “I am a subscriber. We should put your name in Mr. King’s book as well. It is kept at the Pump Room for people to peruse and see who is in town.”

“I shouldn’t think anyone would know me,” Gillie replied.

Perhaps they would not, but a Lady Gillian, from Elmland, would excite some interest. People would be on the lookout for her and cause a little fluster of excitement. That might be good for Gillie’s self-confidence. “You are allowed to go to assemblies?” she asked.

“I go to the ones at home. Deborah says I need polish, and Rawl says he don’t want me fired off from the schoolroom without meeting anyone.”

“Yet he tried to set up a match with Lord Stuyvesant?”

“That was Deborah’s idea.”

“Then we shall begin attending the assemblies, and that will serve as your initiation. I don’t see why you should not have a Season in London,” she added pensively. If it was fast beaux Deborah feared, she would not have put that renowned dasher Stuyvesant forward. No, Gillie had hit it on the head. Deborah feared to take Southam there, but Southam’s presence was not necessary for Gillie to have her Season.

“I’ll never be allowed. Deborah has nowhere to stay,” she replied. “Her papa is there, but he only has rooms somewhere.”

The plan was forming for Beatrice to take Gillie herself, but until she had Southam’s permission, she would not mention it. “I don’t see why Southam doesn’t marry his Deborah,” she said with a
tsk
of disgust. “Then she would have somewhere to stay, and you would have a chaperon for your Season.”

“Perhaps they didn’t think of that.”

“Then you should suggest it to them.”

Gillie worried her lips. “I wouldn’t want to rush Rawl into the marriage,” she said. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure. I am hoping that he will get over her, you see. It must be only an infatuation, don’t you think, Aunt Bea? I mean he cannot
love
her.”

“There is no saying in these things,” she said vaguely, though in her heart she agreed completely.

“That is true. He’s changed since she took over.”

“What do you mean, took over? She doesn’t
live
at Elmland, surely?”

“She might as well. She is there every day, and she manages to keep other young ladies away. When the Lawsons called, she had the butler tell them she was busy with the painters. Miss Lawson is very pretty,” she said knowingly. “Deborah is having the saloon painted blue, but the men hadn’t even started yet. She and Rawl were just talking about their wedding. She wants to be married at Saint George’s, in Hanover Square, because of the royal princesses, you know, but Rawl wants to be married at home.”

“They are actually making their wedding plans, are they?”

“She is making the plans. She says I can be her matron of honor if I marry Stuyvesant.”

“He is too old and too fast for you, my child. I cannot think what Southam is about. You would have much better pickings in London. I shall suggest it to Southam myself.”

Gillie expressed very little interest in this scheme. “I wonder if Penny will come tomorrow,” she said.

“If not, I can borrow a hack for you. I have many friends. Someone will be happy to oblige us. And tomorrow evening, we shall go to the cotillion ball.” She rose and tidied her gown before leaving.

When Beatrice was at the door, Gillie asked, “What did you mean, Aunt Bea, that your stupidity had caused a muddle? You said that earlier, when you first came in and started acting nice.”

“Acting nice.” The thoughtless phrase reminded Bea that she had been acting badly. “Nothing. It was just my confusion.”

“But what muddle? You said I might come. Am I even worse than you expected?” she asked, a frown pleating her brow.

“Certainly not. You show great potential.”

“You thought Rawl was coming with me. Is that it? You didn’t know he was engaged to Deborah?”

“I had no idea Deborah lived anywhere near you. You’d best tidy yourself now, Gillie. You look a fright.”

She got out without admitting the truth, but she had a sinking sensation at the pit of her stomach that Gillie had discerned her secret.

Chapter Three

A new closeness began to develop between Gillie and Beatrice Searle. Penny arrived the next day, and they had their initial ride out the Old Roman Road to the ramshackle estate of Lord Horatio Evendon, younger son of a duke, and uncle to the present Duke of Cleremont. In this unlikely gentleman Gillie found another friend. Lord Horatio was known to have little common sense and less money, but what little he had of both was devoted to the family failing: horseflesh. Though his house was crumbling to ruin, his stables were in excellent repair. Only six of the twenty stalls were full, but the animals were prime goers: a team of grays for his curricle, a team of bays for his city carriage, a hacker, and a hunter.

While Gillie examined the cattle, prying open mouths to look at teeth, bending to the ground to lift a hoof and feel an ankle, Bea talked to Lord Horatio. He had been a friend of her late father’s, and was like an uncle to her. She had long since got over any surprise that the son and uncle of a duke should dress like a farmer and talk like a groom. His full head of black hair was hardly touched by gray. He looked much as he had looked for as long as she could remember. His narrow face had always been the color and texture of leather, his eyes always a deep blue. Only his eyebrows had changed, sprouting long, wiry hairs over the years. He looked rather like an unkempt rustic satyr.

“Who is this young filly you’re chaperoning, Bea?” he asked, drawing out a cigar to light.

“Lord Southam’s half sister.”

“Some kin to Leonard, then. Are you looking for a match for her?”

“She’s too young to marry. I am looking for some safe beaux for her to cut her teeth on. Any ideas, Horatio?”

“Tannie’s the one could set you in that line. You know my nevvie, Tannie, the duke?”

“Only by reputation. A duke in Suffolk, however, is no good to us.”

“He’s in Bath. He has an aunt and a million or so cousins here as well as myself. The boy is horse-mad. Comes by it honestly, what? I’ll bring the young colt to call if you like.”

“Please do, but do not speak of it as a match, or you will upset that million or so of relatives. Lady Gillian has only ten thousand dot.”

“Money’s no problem to that lot. Not to Tannie anyhow. Seeing how keen she is on horses, I wager they’d get along like roast beef and mustard.”

“Who’s he staying with in Bath?” Bea asked with rising interest.

“My sister, Mildred—old Lady Sappington. She is trying to bend Tannie in her niece’s direction. It won’t take. The girl is a bluestocking. Tannie prefers bay or gray. He’ll soon be off to Newmarket. He has some nags entered in the races. I’ll mention your gel to Tannie next time I see him.”

“Are you entering the races this year?”

“My pockets are to let. I’ll be only a spectator.” He glanced toward the stable. “The gel has a way with nags. See how she is talking to Silver, and he acting as tame as a mouse. He won’t usually let anyone but me near him.”

Gillie placed a kiss on the horse’s nose and came prancing forward. “What a perfectly-matched pair, Lord Horatio! Those grays must be sweet goers. Sixteen miles an hour, I wager.”

“Sixteen and a half.” He grinned. “Do ye drive, missie?”

“Only the gig at home. My brother won’t let me have a carriage. He says hacking and hunting are enough. I have to ride an old worn-out hunter. I wish I were rich.”

“So do I, too, and I’d marry you,” he said, jiggling her cheeks between his fingers. “We’ll begin our courtship with a driving lesson—if your chaperon permits?”

A beatific smile glowed on Gillie’s face, “May I, Aunt Bea?” she asked.

“Quite cutting me out! I see no harm in your taking a spin with Lord Horatio. He is an excellent teacher. He taught me to drive.”

“You didn’t tell me you could drive!” Gillie exclaimed.

“I don’t keep a phaeton since my husband’s death. In my salad days, I was a notable whip, was I not, Horatio?”

“A regular Lettie Lade. The first lady in Bath to drive her own rig, if memory serves. Will you ladies come to the house for a glass of ale?”

“Could I have mine here?” Gillie asked. “I want to check out Silver’s back. Did you know he has a little swelling on his muzzle, Lord Horatio? If it’s a warble, you’ll want to get a hot fomentation on it. I’ll check his back and withers. Saddle warbles can be the very devil, and they come on so quickly.”

“It’s no warble, my dear. I accidentally hit him with the end of my crop. I don’t have any warble flies. I keep the stable disinfected, but if you want your ale sent out, it’s no problem.”

“Yes, please.”

“Watch for Lucifer. He’ll get his tongue into your glass if you let him. He likes his ale.”

“I am not a complete flat, Lord Horatio!”

“What a splendid day it has been!” Gillie exclaimed when they reached home.

Bea was coming to know her well enough to know it was not the coiffeur’s successful morning visit, nor the prospect of the cotillion ball that evening that occasioned the remark. It was horses.

“I hope the evening will be equally splendid.” As she had entered Lady Gillian’s name in Mr. King’s subscription book, she felt the ball would not be a fiasco at least.

That evening Bea arranged Gillie’s hair herself and lent her a green shot silk scarf to enliven her white gown. The greatest improvement in her looks, however, was her smile. She was really rather sweet, now that she had got over her perpetual sulking.

“I hope they don’t waltz,” Gillie said as the carriage took them from Mrs. Searle’s comfortable house on Saint Andrew’s Terrace down busy Milson Street to the New Assembly Rooms.

“Waltz in Bath! My dear, only in the racier private homes, such as your Aunt Bea’s. The country dance is all that is usually permitted at the Assembly Rooms, but on Thursday we have the cotillion ball. Two cotillions are performed at the fancy ball as well. As this is Thursday, there will be cotillions but no waltzing.”

“That’s good, because I don’t know how to do it. Deborah lets us have two waltzes at our local assemblies. She wouldn’t let me waltz, because I am too young.”

“Old enough to marry, but too young to waltz?” Bea exclaimed. “I should have thought marriage the more demanding chore. Is Deborah in charge of the local assemblies?”

“She is in charge of everything,” Gillie said comprehensively.

Deborah obviously ruled the roost at Alderton, but her rule did not extend to Bath. With a real concern for Gillie growing stronger by the moment, Bea decided to make this holiday a time to remember. She was busy among her friends, and saw to it that Gillie never lacked for partners. There was no ignoring the fact that no gentleman lingered after a dance, nor did he request a second honor. It was not so much the girl’s looks, for she turned out looking handsome enough, if a touch rustic. No, it was her harping on stable matters that cooled their ardor. The assembly closed at eleven sharp, and the ladies returned to Saint Andrew’s Terrace.

“May we go riding again tomorrow, Aunt Bea?” was Gillie’s comment when they reached home. Not so much as a word about the assembly. She had met and stood up with half a dozen eligible gentlemen. Any normal girl would have been gurgling or at least repining.