Holiday in Bath (20 page)

The magic hour of eleven arrived all too soon for Trelenny, though in truth she was not used to late hours and once or twice stifled a yawn behind her fan, while her eyes continued to sparkle with pleasure. But there was no prolonging the dancing beyond the appointed hour. The Lower Rooms might persist to midnight; the Upper Rooms would not fall into such laxity. Trelenny found herself bundled out to the arranged chair, where Cranford discovered as he walked beside that she was not of Lady Babthorpe’s inclination. No sooner had the men begun to walk off with her than she lowered the window and exclaimed, “Wasn’t it delightful? Everyone looked so elegant I was almost afraid to open my mouth at first. You should have danced more, Cranford. Doesn’t Lady Jane attend the rooms?”

“She depends on her father’s escort and he takes exception to crowded public places.”

Trelenny looked crestfallen: “I didn’t know. Could we invite her to join us next time? Or perhaps you could escort her. Mr. Wheldrake has offered to look after Mama and me.”

“Has he? Very thoughtful of him. I shall remember to consult him in future.”

“Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Cranford. Mama thought you would not wish to be forever tied to us. You will have friends of your own to see and carouse with of an evening.” She smiled impishly in the darkness. “I liked your friends. Mr. Bodford especially is so very entertaining.”

“He talks too much,” Cranford muttered, not meeting her eyes. If one wished to keep a secret, one certainly didn’t share it with Tony. Imagine his telling Trelenny about Sally Reed’s house in Kendal! Of course Bodford had protested that she hadn’t understood, but Cranford knew better. Why else would she have bestowed that incredulous stare on him? “Shall I come by in the morning to take you and your mother to the Pump Room?”

“Dear me, no. I don’t know if Mama will wish to go again, and I haven’t the least idea when we would leave, even if we did.”

“I’ll call sometime during the day to see what plans you have for the evening.”

“Don’t hesitate to make plans of your own, Cranford. Mrs. Waplington has a stack of invitations which she says will include Mama and me. And Mr. Wheldrake—”

“Yes, I know. He will be happy to look after you. I doubt he understands the first thing about what that entails.” The chair was set down in the hall and Cranford, grim-faced, helped Trelenny out.

She allowed him to take her hand but quickly withdrew it when she stood before him. “I thought I behaved just as I ought this evening. Did I do something wrong?” When he made no reply, just held her eyes with his for a long moment, she swallowed nervously. “Goodnight, Cranford. Thank you for escorting us.”

“Goodnight, Trelenny.” Without another glance at her he turned and made his farewells to the rest of the party and strode from the house.

Although the maid Alice enthusiastically explained what she had in mind to do with Trelenny’s hair the next morning a wild concoction of ringlets and sweeping waves—her mistress shook a determined head. “I am going to have to have it cut.”

Horrified eyes met hers unbelievingly. “Cut, Miss Trelenny? But you’ve never had your hair cut. I’ve not seen a lady in the whole of Bath who has such long, beautiful tresses as yours. Whatever would your Mama say?”

“I shall have it done properly. Last night there was a lady who looked so…so…oh, free and unencumbered with her hair all short and fluffy. When I complimented her on it she laughed and said, ‘I had to have it all cut off for the scarlet fever last year and it has yet to grow in properly.’ At first I thought she was teasing me, but it really was so! Imagine! She looked wonderful but was suffering agonies of mortification for her short hair. I shan’t, Alice. I want to be different from everyone else. So I asked Mrs. Waplington who was the best hairdresser in Bath and she promptly said Monsieur Robert and I ordered that a note be sent him first thing this morning. I shall pay him from my own money. Now don’t look so disapproving. It’s my hair, after all. And don’t go off to tell Mama; it’s to be a surprise.”

“She’ll be surprised all right,” the girl muttered darkly. “‘Why you should take such a notion I can’t imagine, Miss Trelenny. I can make your hair look ever so elegant, and what would you want to do but look like someone’s lost dog!”

“No one notices you if you look like everyone else.”

“Mercy sakes, miss. You’re hardly a familiar face in Bath! You’ll be noticed enough just for being new here.”

The truth of this statement did not escape Trelenny after the reasonable success she had enjoyed the previous evening. Nor could she claim that she was tired of the same old hairstyle, as each day in Bath had occasioned the testing of some new arrangement, with an infinite variety yet before her. But each seemed only an imitation, an artificial copy of the mode. She wished to be original, as original as one could be who had been inspired by another. Miss Tooker’s black locks were kept ingloriously hidden under a fanciful creation of feathers and ribbons; Trelenny had every intention of displaying her blonde mop to advantage. Cranford might disapprove, of course; there was nothing new in that! He treated her altogether too casually. Just see how he had practically ignored her at the assembly the previous evening and told her afterwards that she was a burden to him. As though she were a childish nuisance and not a grown woman entering society! Well, he need not bother to escort them about! Mr. Wheldrake was more than willing to do so, and Mama was feeling guilty about imposing on Cranford, anyhow. For all Trelenny cared, Cranford could go off to flirt with Lady Babthorpe, discuss pottery with Lady Jane, drink with Mr. Bodford, or gamble with Lord Rissington. She would be a great deal better off without his condemnatory presence. And she would show him that other men didn’t see her as an affliction.

An hour later Monsieur Robert minced into her bedroom in Alice’s disdainful wake. He was, however, no less astonished and horrified than the maid when Trelenny advised him that she wished to have her hair cut short. The long fingers touched her silken tresses as he murmured, “No, no, madam. You have no idea what you ask! Mon dieu, what I could do with such hair. Cut it?” He uttered the words with loathing. “It is not the mode! And for you it would not do in any case. Such hair is an achievement! Such length, such texture. It should be worn as a crown!”

“If you cannot or will not cut it, Monsieur Robert, I shall have to call in another hairdresser,” Trelenny told him sternly.

The little man experienced great distress as he snipped, none of which was unaccompanied by mournful declarations of disaster. Two inches at a time was the most he would allow himself, begging her to reconsider as each new length emerged, to be rhapsodized over for its greater desirability than any shorter length. Implacably Trelenny urged him to continue, though as the mounds of hair began to grow on the floor she did experience some qualms. Feeling that it was too late to turn back, she had begun to wonder whether her straight hair would behave in quite the way Miss Tooker’s did. Perhaps it would lie limply about her head, untrainable by hot irons or combs, drab and disgraceful.

As Trelenny’s apprehension grew, Monsieur Robert’s appeared to diminish. “Ah, yes. Who would have guessed? That will do very nicely. You see, we have a bit of curl when it is short. With a little help from the rod…” His fingers flew about—touching, snipping, crimping, turning her this way and that until he was perfectly satisfied. For some time Trelenny had not been able to force herself to look in the glass, but now Monsieur Robert triumphantly insisted. “I am a genius! Look at it! It will be the new mode, I promised you. See what I have done!”

Trelenny saw, and she heaved a sigh of relief. Gone was the stylish long hair, replaced by a cap of fluffy curls that framed her freckled face so impishly that she very nearly hugged the small fellow, who was bouncing about in his ecstasy. “Yes, that is precisely what I wanted. I look quite different, don’t I?”

Mrs. Storwood certainly thought so. She took one look at her daughter and reached for her vinaigrette with a shaking hand, unable to utter a word.

“Don’t you like it, Mama?” Trelenny asked anxiously. “I know it is not the thing to have short hair, but I think it is just right for me, don’t you, Mama?”

“I…I shall become used to it, I dare say. Your Papa was always so proud of your long hair. . . What he will say... I will write to him, of course, so that he can prepare himself.”

“You don’t like it,” Trelenny said flatly, dropping into a large chair, her face despondent.

“Well, dear, it seems a little…brazen, somehow. But it will grow in time and can be pulled back into…Do you realize that you won’t be able to wear braids anymore? I think, yes, I am quite sure, that your hair is now shorter than Cranford’s. What will he say?”

“Oh, I don’t care what Cranford says, Mama! What difference can that possibly make? He can have his hair cut shorter, if that will make him feel better. I’m sorry you don’t like it, though. Monsieur Robert was rather pleased with it and thought it would start a new mode.”

“I can’t see how,” Mrs. Storwood replied unhappily. “No one over the age of twenty would dare to wear such a style. I thought you were so intent on looking older, Trelenny.”

“I was, but I don’t want to look like everyone else, dearest Mama. Couldn’t you—”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a footman, who announced that Mr. Morton Rowle had inquired if they were at home to callers. After one despairing look at Trelenny’s hair, Mrs. Storwood drew a deep, shuddering sigh and said, “Yes, I suppose so. Please show him in.”

All deference, Mr. Rowle first made his bow to Mrs. Storwood, who steeled herself for his inevitable astonishment at her daughter’s rash morning’s activity. But Mr. Rowle did not so much as blink when he turned to the girl. A quick smile broadened with an assumed complicity, almost as though he had expected such an independent action from her. “Enchanting. And much more appropriate, if I may say so, than the very proper style you wore last evening—” He checked at the frown gathering on Mrs. Storwood’s brow and changed the subject. “I have brought you the book I mentioned. Perhaps your mother would enjoy it as well. It’s a bit of a spoof on the manners of the day in Bath.”

Trelenny accepted the book with due gravity, though her eyes expressed an eager anticipation, as she expected it to be a great deal more entertaining than
Evelina
, coming as it had from Mr. Rowle rather than Cranford. Despite her attempts during the correct half hour Mr. Rowle sat with them to encourage him to elaborate on the experiences mentioned the previous evening, he would not be budged from his mundane social discourse, directed mainly at Mrs. Storwood, who apparently found it wholly acceptable. Mr. Rowle did, however, press her hand on his departure, expressing the wish that she and her mother might walk with him the next day if it were fine.

Ever alert to her daughter’s wishes, and comforted by Mr. Rowle’s entirely unobjectionable performance, Mrs. Storwood went so far as to temporize. “That would be very pleasant—provided there is no chill or damp in the air.”

“I could, perhaps, show you around the Abbey,” he suggested, “if that would be of interest. I confess to some little knowledge of its history.”

Pleased by the serious nature of the projected expedition, Mrs. Storwood smiled her acceptance and Trelenny, conscious of the admiration in his eyes as he looked enquiringly down at her, grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Rowle. I’m sure we would enjoy a tour of the Abbey above almost anything."

“Almost anything?” he murmured quizzingly, as he slipped out the door with one last, laughing glance at her.

Trelenny turned to her mother, a bubble of mirth still welling in her, and commented, “He is the most exasperating gentleman.”

“How can you say so?” Mrs. Storwood asked, a puzzled tilt to her brows. “I thought you liked him.”

“Oh, I do.” Trelenny reconsidered expressing her opinion on his choice of a destination for a morning’s stroll, since it had occurred to her belatedly that the decision had rested solely on Mr. Rowle’s assumption of her mother’s preference. Instead she laughed. “You see, Mama, he thought my haircut quite suitable. I hope you won’t worry about it, for I can always purchase a wig if people laugh at me.”

“A wig?” Mrs. Storwood asked in a quavering voice, powerfully affected by the vision of some such item sitting askew on her daughter’s head.

“Lots of ladies wear wigs, my dear. Did you see the short, plump lady in the puce gown last night? There can be no question but that she wore one. Nature could not possibly have contrived such a grotesque color. And it wasn’t dyed, for at the nape of her neck a strand of white hair had escaped as though she were concealing some animal under her hat and its tail was hanging out.”

“You do have the most vivid imagination.” Mrs. Storwood sighed. “But I dare say there will he no cause for you to wear a wig. We shall see what Elsa has to say about your unique hairstyle. I wonder if she has left her room yet.”

Before she had a chance to enquire, the footman came to announce the arrival of two more callers. Half-reconciled to her daughter’s appearance, and delighted that Trelenny should have won so much recognition the previous evening, Mrs. Storwood promptly agreed to have them admitted. Lord Rissington and Tony Bodford had met on the stoop outside, the former bearing flowers, the latter a box of comfits; and a mock acrimonious scene had followed in which each had deplored the other’s gift as unworthy, whether for its ephemeral or cloying nature, depending on the character of the giver. On entering the parlor, therefore, there was a certain amount of good-natured jockeying for position, each desiring that this gift should be presented first and with an appropriate comment on its virtues, but with nonetheless an attempt to win Mrs. Storwood’s approbation and not her disgust. Owing to these overriding concerns, neither of the gentlemen at first noticed Trelenny’s hair.

“I say, Miss Storwood! Won’t you cut a dash!” Startled but enthusiastic, Tony Bodford uttered such phrases as all the crack; slap up to the echo, and precise to a pin. The box of comfits all but forgotten, was carelessly consigned to a lyre-shaped music stand which inhibited his progress to have a closer view of Trelenny’s short locks.