Holiday in Bath (23 page)

“I know. Aren’t they glorious? I believe I could come to rank dancing the waltz second only to riding, given the opportunity.”

“Frowned on it at first, the old tabbies. A lot of them still do. Won’t have it danced in their homes, and sit about cackling like a bunch of geese while their eyes fall out trying to see who’s holding whom too closely at someone else’s.”

If Mr. Bodford stumbled against music stands in crowded parlors, he did not have any difficulty on the dance floor. He was, in fact, a superb dancer, unconsciously graceful and offhandedly entertaining. Trelenny retreated to her mother’s side flushed with pleasure, only to find Lord Rissington awaiting her there.

“I’ve arranged for the dance after this next, which you may recall you have promised to me, to be a waltz. I hope that meets with your approval,” Rissington announced, his cherubic face beaming.

“Told you he could get anything done,” Tony grumbled.

Trelenny calculated that it would be at least the following Thursday before they would hear from her father. It had not occurred to Mrs. Storwood that her daughter thought they would be summoned home, so she had not mentioned that her own portion of the letter, which Trelenny with scrupulous integrity had not read, had indicated her willingness to stay in Bath for her daughter’s sake. Trelenny consequently expected to be summoned back to Westmorland in less than a week and threw herself energetically into the entertainments Bath had to offer. Saturday Mr. Rowle proved an excellent, personable tour guide of the Abbey, winning Mrs. Storwood’s approbation and Trelenny’s dissatisfaction. (She had not yet succeeded in getting him to tell her of his adventures.) The evening’s occupation consisted of another ball at which she did not find him amongst the guests, though Lord Rissington and Mr. Bodford once again vied for her attention.

Sunday Cranford, formidably polite, escorted them to the chapel for services and took his dinner in Henrietta Street, but excused himself afterwards for an engagement with Lady Jane. By Monday Trelenny had convinced herself that he no longer intended to offer for her, and that she might rejoice in her new freedom, which consisted largely of flirting (so her mother with palpitating heart called it as she bid Mr. Wheldrake good night) with all three of her beaux at the dress ball in the Upper Rooms. Although Mrs. Storwood felt it incumbent upon her to have a small chat with her daughter about the decorum of dangling three men after her all evening, Trelenny just grinned and said, “Oh, pooh, Mama. It is but a game with them. Have you seen the least sign that any one of them is serious in his intentions? I promise you I have not! They are forever quizzing me and calling me Mistress Mary. They say I am quite contrary, but it is just what they expect. Oh, Mama, can it be wrong to have a laugh with them?”

“Well, no, dear, but they might receive the impression you are . . . a little . . . fast.”

“How can you say so? Oh, I see what it is. It’s Cranford’s opinion you are really concerned for, is it not? You’re afraid he’ll not approve of all my beaux. Dear Mama, I hate to shatter your fondest dreams, but even you cannot doubt that he has desisted in his intentions. He only speaks when it is necessary, and then he is so coldly polite.”

“But…but he asked your father for permission to pay his addresses to you, and he hasn’t even asked you!” There was a suspicion of tears in her voice, and she busied her fingers sorting the threads in her box.

“Not formally, no. At Sutton Hall once…” Trelenny sighed. “He knew I wouldn’t marry him then, Mama, and he was too proud to ask where he would receive a refusal. I think he is developing an interest elsewhere.”

“You mean Lady Jane? Yes, I have noticed his attendance on her. But surely they are old friends, Trelenny. Cranford would not go back on his word.”

“Pray don’t talk so foolishly, Mama! I as good as told him I wouldn’t have him, so he is free to court whomever he pleases.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth to stop its trembling. How stupid to feel agitated about such a matter! Had she not for the past month and more declared her determination to reject him? Certainly he felt no remorse at her decision, and she was not so vain as to have wanted him to propose only so that she could give him her negative, so where was the problem? “I. . . I must go to my room and look out a shawl to wear with my dress tonight. The green one is snagged and won’t do.”

“Why not borrow mine? Or better yet, shall we go to the shops and find a new one for you? There were some beautiful cashmere ones in Milsom Street. Your Papa meant for you to have something special.”

“Tomorrow perhaps, Mama. For the card party I shall borrow yours if you won’t mind. I thought I would just read for a while in my room now.”

“Are you feeling well, Trelenny?” her mother asked, all concern.

“Of course, silly. Must I feel ill to read a book?” She gave her mother a quick hug and abruptly left the room. Although Mr. Rowle had queried her as to how she liked the book he had lent her, she couldn’t pick it up to read once she had gained her bedchamber. Instead she stared out the back window into the autumn garden, feeling as desolate as the day, which had become overcast and windy. As she watched, the rain began to fall, splashing against the sill and coursing down the panes, and it was a moment before she realized that her own tears had begun to fall as well. Dashing them away with an angry hand, she thought indignantly, well, really, it must be coming on to my time of month. How absurdly emotional I am! This really will not do.

Looking about the room for some occupation, she rapidly discarded the magazines and her needlework. Absently she opened the lid of her jewelry box, which played a cheerful tune hardly in keeping with her mood. She snapped it shut, but a most peculiar idea had formed in her mind. In the little room opposite, which she and her mother had been given as a sitting room, there was a pianoforte. Suddenly it seemed very important that she practice. No matter that it had been months, perhaps years, since she had done so with any serious intent. Today she did.

Two enormous rooms were filled with tables, some with green baize covers and a few with the two red and two black diamond-shaped marks denoting rouge et noir tables. Although a number of people stood about laughing and talking, the majority had settled down to the serious business of the evening—whist, piquet, quinze, macao, cassino, even faro. Mrs. Waplington allowed herself an evening at cards only once a week, for though she enjoyed the excitement, she very seldom found herself a winner. “You have to keep a clear head, my dear,” she told Trelenny, “and I become so caught up in the game that I hardly notice my glass being refilled. And if it is full, I will drink it, heaven knows. Find a table where the stakes are low or moderate and don’t hesitate to excuse yourself if the play gets over your head.”

“Yes, ma’am. I shall try to follow your advice.”

“Have you some money?” Mrs. Waplington dug in her reticule and came up with five guineas. “Here, enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, thank you, no. I have sufficient for my needs,” Trelenny objected.

“I always think so, too.” She laughed and pressed the coins into her guest’s hand. “You would do me a favor, love, for I just know that tonight I shan’t have the least luck.”

Trelenny accepted the coins with every intention of returning them at the end of the evening. Her own money seemed more than enough for an evening’s play, even should she be so unfortunate as to have bad cards. Never once did she doubt her skill. For an hour she partnered a young man with whom she had danced at the previous night’s entertainment, and the following hour an elderly gentleman whose tendency to nap between plays caused her some confusion. With a certain amount of relief, she accepted Mr. Rowle’s invitation to join a table playing at macao, though the stakes were so high as to make her feel slightly uncomfortable. At most of the tables there was a businesslike buzz of conversation, but at Mr. Rowle’s things were different. Laughter and high spirits reigned supreme here, though drink held a notable place as well. No glass was ever below a quarter full that one of the participants did not wave a footman over to see it convivially replenished. Trelenny’s five guineas were soon gone, and the stack in front of Mr. Rowle grew considerably.

Before another round could be dealt by Mr. Rowle, Trelenny rose a little unsteadily. “Thank you. I must look out my mother, so if you will excuse me...”

Mr. Rowle was instantly on his feet. “Pray don’t deprive us of your company, Miss Storwood! Your mother and Mr. Wheldrake are just there on the sofa, and I dare say would be none the happier for being interrupted.”

Trelenny turned startled eyes in the direction he indicated and found that indeed Mrs. Storwood and her companion seemed to be enjoying themselves to the exclusion of any other person in the room. Seldom did Mrs. Storwood look so animated as she did now, laughing and chatting happily to the apparent delight of Mr. Wheldrake. Uneasily Trelenny resumed her seat and allowed herself to be once again drawn into the camaraderie of the little group. Another half hour saw the disappearance of her own money and she rose again.

“There. I am cleaned out! Please excuse me.”

Mr. Rowle’s countenance registered shock, as though she had committed a social solecism. Again he rose and stood beside her but spoke in a kindly whisper. “I see what it is. You are not used to our Bath card parties. One never admits to being rolled up; it makes the other players uncomfortable, you know. We’re a friendly group, Miss Storwood. Any one of us would be happy to accept your note of hand.”

A hasty glance at her mother, still cheerfully engaged in conversation, assured her that that excuse would not hold. “Mrs. Waplington thought it would not be a good evening for her, and I dare say she is searching for me, longing to be on her way.”

“Ah, your hostess misjudged the fortunes of the evening, it would seem, for I saw her not ten minutes ago when I slipped into the other room, a handy pile of coins by her side and twinkling on her companions in the most superior way.”

Since Mr. Waplington had not attended them, and Trelenny knew no one else in the rooms well enough to make them an excuse for leaving her companions, she returned to her seat with a frown. Professing delight at her return, the others plunged straightaway into the game again and Trelenny knew the embarrassment of having a footman bring paper and pen for her to scribble a chit. She began to pray that her mother or Mrs. Waplington would come for her, but they did not. Despite her refusal to take another sip of her wine, or her concentration on the cards, she continued to lose. Each time she signed a new chit, the others smiled encouragingly and hurried on with the game.

At last she pushed her chair back rather violently and murmuring, “Excuse me!” she walked off before the others realized what had happened. Though Mr. Rowle was instantly on his feet he found himself addressing her retreating back. “Miss Storwood! You’re not leaving!”

“Yes. If you will be so good as to possess yourself of all my notes, I shall redeem them tomorrow.”

“But of course.” He caught up with her, smiling. “There’s no need to redeem them so soon. It is only a game, after all.”

‘‘I shall redeem them tomorrow."

“But you don’t even know how much there is.”

“Certainly I do,” she replied indignantly, pausing before they reached the sofa where her mother sat. “They amount to twenty guineas, and you will be paid tomorrow.”

“Nonsense! It could never be so much! No more than ten, I should think.”

“You will find the case to be otherwise, Mr. Rowle. Where shall I send the money?”

He cast a quick, nervous glance at her mother. “Really, there is no need, Miss Storwood. As I said, it was only a game. I’ll tear up your notes.”

“Don’t be absurd! We weren’t playing lottery tickets or speculation. Perhaps you will call tomorrow afternoon. I should be able to have the money by then.”

Mr. Rowle bowed his acknowledgment, a sheepish grin on his face. “It’s the very devil to hold the notes of one who means. . . no! At least I shall see you tomorrow. I shall count the hours.”

“It will improve your arithmetic.” Trelenny laughed, but she ignored his rueful expression and turned away with a heavy heart. Twenty guineas! Almost the entire amount she had left with Cranford, and only a handful of coins left in her room.

“Did you enjoy yourself, dear?”

Forcing a smile to her lips, Trelenny faced her mother and Mr. Wheldrake. “I like dancing better, but it was interesting. I think I learned a great deal tonight.”

“You lost then?” Mr. Wheldrake asked, amused.

“Yes, but no more than I can afford, and there were compensations. May I sit with you? I haven’t a shilling left.”

Mrs. Storwood offered several guineas but Trelenny refused, and Mr. Wheldrake nodded approvingly. “You have learned something, my dear young lady. There’s no use throwing good money after bad.”

“No, nor anything else,” Trelenny replied cryptically.

Both Rissington and Bodford had solicited Cranford’s company, and Lord Barlow and his daughter would have welcomed his attendance at a musical gathering, but Cranford chose to spend the evening in his room, reading. He had sent no reply to Lady Babthorpe’s message, having no wish to have it intercepted by her husband, and because the peremptoriness of it, after his efforts to refuse her kindly, had irritated him. A great number of things seemed to irritate him just now—not having his valet, staying with Rissington, the overcooked beef at dinner, even the fit of his well-worn boots. These last he had hurled into the grate when, having resorted to a boot jack, he had accidentally pulled his stocking off with it, and snagged the damned thing. Bath felt too small to hold him; he chafed against the inability to simply walk out to his stables, saddle a horse, and ride hell for leather across the countryside. Usually town life did not pall on him for several weeks, but he could not have borne to spend the evening being pleasant when all he really wanted to do was stomp around his room and curse.

If it weren’t for that little vixen, right now he could be—where? Arguing with his father at Ashwicke Park? Alone in the partially furnished study at Coverly? In Kendal with a charming but idealized Cyprian? Cranford threw himself on the bed and glared at the ceiling. After a while he picked up the book and began to read, shutting his mind to any external thoughts and hardly aware that there were no Bavarian princes or daredevil captains in the story. There was plenty of food for thought.