Bath Scandal (9 page)

“Not bad news, I hope?” Bea inquired.

“Merely a domestic crisis. Deborah handled it.”

“Which of the servants has she had a fight with now?” Gillie asked.

“Don’t be impertinent,” he said curtly, and rammed the letter into his pocket.

Gillie fastened a demanding pair of eyes on her brother. “I hope it wasn’t Abe or Elmer.”

“Of course it wasn’t a groom. What would Deborah be doing in the stable?”

“I wonder what she was doing at the house,” Gillie continued, then answered her own question. “Cook’s birthday! I expect you gave her Armitage’s birthday envelope to deliver.”

In the confusion of his unplanned trip, Southam had forgotten this minor domestic celebration. He doubted Deborah had remembered it, either, but he knew now why the footman had been taking the bottle of sherry. The servants would have their own little celebration for Armitage. The sherry incident must have put a fine crimp in it. He’d have to apologize to Armitage. He’d send her a little something extra for her birthday and ask her to have the dismissed footman recalled. Deborah was only trying to be helpful, of course, but at times her help could be a demmed nuisance.

“Exactly,” Southam said.

It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he was lying, and that he was upset.

Before Gillie caused any further deterioration in her brother’s mood, Bea changed the subject by calling for sherry. “You will observe, if you please, that I have taught your savage sister to sip her sherry without wincing,” she said, handing Southam a glass. “She demanded ale the evening she arrived.”

“I still prefer it,” Gillie said, but she said it with a smile.

The conversation turned to their holiday and continued on that subject through dinner. To push Gillie into the proper frame of mind, Bea said casually, “Sir Harold Whitehead and his mama called on me this afternoon. She mentioned that Mrs. McIvor hired a pianist for her dinner party. That would be to allow the youngsters to dance this evening, to throw Tannie and Miss Althea together.”

“And she didn’t invite me!” Gillie said, not angry, but slightly miffed.

As Bea knew perfectly well that the entertainment was to be a concert and doubted very much that either Duncan or Tannie would attend, she tried to smooth it over. “I believe she had her guest list made up a week ago. No doubt the dancing was a last-minute thing, when she learned Tannie was to attend.”

Southam was more interested to hear that Sir Harold had been allowed to call, when he himself had been turned out. “I trust Sir Harold and his mama did not remain long enough to delay your packing for Bournemouth,” he said.

“Only long enough to invite me to a card party tomorrow evening, which I, of course, was obliged to decline. I gauged their reaction closely when I explained the reason. You will be happy to learn, Southam, you are considered completely harmless. No eyebrows rose—well, not more than an inch or so. Sir Harold harrumphed in displeasure, at which point I hastily inserted that Miss Pittfield would accompany us.”

Southam was obliged, by Gillie’s presence, to hear this slight in silence. “Where is Miss Pittfield?” he inquired. “I have not seen her since my arrival.”

“She dines with us when we are at home alone,” Bea explained. “She tells me she does not dine with company at Elmland. She seems to consider you company, Southam. She insisted on eating with the housekeeper this evening.”

“Miss Pittfield came to us as a governess years ago. We consider her part of the family, but she stands high on her dignity. From time to time she takes these freakish notions.”

“It began the day Deborah asked her whether she was paid,” Gillie explained. “Deborah told her that as she still receives a salary, she should consider herself a servant. In case you hadn’t noticed, Rawl, it is when Deborah dines with us that Miss Pittfield eats with the housekeeper.”

Southam directed a quelling glare on his sister. “You are obviously mistaken. Deborah is not with us this evening.”

Beatrice would like to have heard more of this. A hostess’s job was to maintain a pleasant atmosphere, however, and she dutifully changed the subject. “If you want to have a word with Miss Pittfield later, you will find her in the housekeeper’s parlor, chirping merry over this unexpected holiday.”

“I trust her eyebrows did not rise, either, when you told her of it?” Southam asked.

“She thought it an excellent idea. Do you a world of good, she said.”

A few subtle hints let Southam know he was not to linger long after dinner. Phrases like “an early night before traveling” and “still a few things to pack” left him in no doubt. He took only one glass of port after dinner and planned to leave within a half hour of joining the ladies. He wanted a few moments alone with Bea before leaving, telling himself they had planning to do to hasten Gillie’s romance. Yet some deeper well of truth in him admitted that he also wanted a little flirtation. No harm in it. Mrs. Searle was an engaging lady. Why, a married man would do no less.

When he went to the saloon, he was surprised and not at all pleased to see Sir Harold Whitehead ensconced in a chair, with Mr. Reynolds on the sofa beside Beatrice. Southam had made their acquaintance at the Upper Rooms, and said good-evening.

“I was just telling Beatrice,” Mr. Reynolds said, “that I heard of her little trip—no thanks to Sir Harold. You should have told me, sly dog! I came to say farewell and urge her to return as soon as possible.” He turned to Bea. “No need to tell you, madam, that the town will be a desert without you.”

“How did you hear of it, if not from Sir Harold or his mama?” she asked.

“I daresay Sir Harold’s mama told her crones. Word is buzzing along the grapevine: hang up the knocker in crape, don your mourning bands. Mrs. Searle is leaving us.”

Southam noticed that Bea smiled at this absurdity. How could she tolerate these old fools? He saw a box of bonbons sitting on the sofa table and a bouquet of flowers—farewell tributes from her swains. All this had the aroma of romance,

“Next time I shall tell Mama to hold her tongue,” Sir Harold said, with a jealous eye at Reynolds.

Reynolds, not to be outdone, began to pester Bea. “You have been to Brighton with Sir Harold; you are off to Bournemouth with Lord Southam; when am I to have the honor of making a trip with you, Beatrice?”

“Why, as soon as you acquire a mama, or maiden aunt, or sister to chaperon us, sir. You cannot expect me to traipse off alone with a gentleman!”

“Quite so, but that is not to say we could not take a dart to the coast, to Portishead or Avonmouth, some day and be home by evening.”

“Portishead!” Sir Harold said disparagingly. “Is that your idea of an outing? I am surprised you don’t suggest touring the slums. What we ought to do is make up a party and go to visit the Lake District.”

“An excellent notion!” Reynolds said. “You and your mama, Mrs. Searle and myself.”

“And Mrs. Searle’s chaperon!” Bea added, laughing. “You are shocking Lord Southam, gentlemen. He will expect me to reach down and tie my garter in public, the way you natter on.”

She gave them a cup of tea. As soon as this was taken, she summarily dismissed them. Southam was the last to go. Between Deborah’s letter and Bea’s beaux, he was in a vile humor and did very little to conceal it.

“Where has Gillie taken herself off to?” he asked curtly.

“She is having Miss Pittfield do her hair up in papers, to present a ravishing picture tomorrow.”

“Just as well she missed that visit from your beaux. Are they accustomed to cluttering up your saloon in the evening?”

Her eyes narrowed at his tone. “Why, no, they are not so inconsiderate. I more usually go out or have a larger party in for dinner. They came this evening to wish me a pleasant trip.”

“Did you ever think of hiring a chaperon, Mrs. Searle?”

Her green eyes flashed dangerously. “For your information, Southam, I
am
a chaperon. You have not forgotten, surely, that you sent your young sister to me. If you feel me competent to guide and protect
her,
then common sense must tell you that I can chaperon myself.”

“I didn’t care overly much for the way those two old roués were speaking.”

“Then you ought to have left!” she shot back angrily. “I am not about to take lessons in propriety from a provincial, even if he has a handle to his name. My friends are not roués; they are gentlemen. They would no more try to take advantage of me than they would dare to read me this lecture you are attempting to deliver. You were surly and rude throughout their entire visit. Whatever was in that letter you received, it is obvious it has upset you considerably. I pray you will get it straightened out before we leave for Bournemouth.”

“This has nothing to do with the letter.”

“Then what has it to do with? Are you criticizing my friends, my morals, what? If you feel I am not straitlaced enough to guard Gillie, then you may take her home, for I do not intend to change my ways to suit you. You are not even a relation, but only a slight connection through Leonard.”

“It was only meant as a word of warning. I thought perhaps you did not realize ...”

“Live all my life in Bath and not realize that tongues wag at the slightest hint of impropriety? Whatever I may choose to do in my private life, you may be very sure I give no cause for scandal. Now, if you will excuse me, Southam, I am tired. I have to speak to my housekeeper about managing the house while I am away.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you, Cousin,” he said gently, for he knew her anger was justified. “You are quite right, of course. And I have no qualms about your guardianship of Gillie.”

“Do you want a word with Miss Pittfield before leaving?”

“I’ll see her tomorrow. There is no need to detain you further.”

She accompanied him to the door, where she handed him his hat and gloves. As she was to be confined in a carriage with him for the better part of the next day, Beatrice wanted to patch up the little quarrel. “Was there bad news in your letter?” she asked in a more friendly tone.

“Only a fracas over a bottle of sherry,” he said, shaking his head at the troublesome triviality
.

“I won’t suggest you are such a nipcheese as to salt the cooking sherry, thus forcing your servants to pilfer a bottle, so I conclude you have a tippler on your staff. They can be the very devil, but I am sure Deborah has given him a stiff lecture.”

“Yes,” he replied as calmly as her words allowed.

They made their adieux and parted friends.
Southam was unhappy with his behavior. It was outrageous of him to complain of Mrs. Searle’s private life, when he had battened Gillie on her with no real excuse. No wonder she fired up at him. How her eyes had flamed! Still, it was a trifle fast, her running about here and there with gentlemen. Was she having an affair with one of them? That remark, let out in the heat of argument, about maintaining an air of propriety whatever she was doing, was ambiguous to say the least. Reynolds, he thought, had the inner track.

Not much of a catch for the dashing Beatrice Searle. With her looks and charm she could do better for herself. Any gentleman would be proud to escort her. Some ladies were made for wives, and some were made for mistresses, and to him, Beatrice seemed the ideal mistress. Beautiful, certainly. A widow, therefore not a prude. They would be together at the inn for a few days. Gillie was sharing a room with Miss Pittfield, and Beatrice had a private room—next door to his own. On the surface, there was nothing to cause scandal. Beatrice boasted of her discretion. It almost seemed an invitation....

Then he thought of Deborah and was unhappy with her behavior. She hadn’t used to be so demmed interfering. Surely Gillie was mistaken about her having spoken to Miss Pittfield about her paltry salary. Pittfield, though only a connection, was like a second mother to him. He felt badly about Armitage’s ruined birthday as well. Have to write that note off  tonight and include a few extra pounds. Would his future life be peppered with such upsets? Deborah, as mistress of Elmland, was supposed to smooth matters on the home front, but since their betrothal it seemed he was constantly involved in minor domestic frictions.

Mrs. Searle, Beatrice, ran a smooth and comfortable house. No salting of the sherry in her kitchen. Whoever decreed that comparisons were odious was right, but they were also inevitable, and for the first time since the advent of Deborah Swann into his life, Southam felt a doubt that he had chosen wisely.

Chapter Eight

The fifty-mile trip in Southam’s well-sprung chaise was pleasant. They drove through the spring countryside, with gently rolling hills and rich meadows enlivened by many villages. Until they reached Frome, the roads were busy, but as they approached the broad Vale of Blackmore, the rich pasturelands ahead were less traveled and promised fewer congenial inns, so they took lunch at Wincanton.

Afternoon was drawing to a close when the outcroppings of pinewoods alerted them they were nearing their destination. From the rising ground they looked down on a fashionable watering place situated at the mouth of a valley. Hills of pine lifted above, surrounding and protecting it from harsh winds. Beyond the coast, water shimmered gold and orange and crimson in the sunlight.

“Our hotel is on the east cliff,” Bea said.

“Yes, John Groom has studied the maps. He will get us there with no trouble,” Southam replied.

“I’m starved!” Gillie whined. She was restless from her long incarceration. Bea shot her a warning look. “Pardon me, Aunt Bea. I am feeling peckish. Or must I wait till you ask me?”

“Southam is your host on this trip, Gillie. I would have to admit I am feeling peckish myself if our host asked me.”

“Your hints are noted, ladies.” He turned to Gillie and added, “This is what happens to young girls who don’t eat their vegetables.”

They were soon let down in front of the stylish Royal Bath and went in to claim their rooms. After arranging for a private parlor for dinner, Southam took charge of the keys. He led the way upstairs, opened one door, and handed the key to Miss Pittfield.