Holiday in Bath (3 page)

Ashwicke Park was not the same without his mother and sister. The lifelong antagonism with his father now colored his stays there, unrelieved as they had been in the past by the loving concern of Lady Chessels and the charming enthusiasm of Clare. Cranford wandered into the drawing room and stood by the traceried gothic window, looking out over the park. Although he could easily envision Trelenny galloping about the estate, he could not summon an image of her presiding over the tea tray or seated at the Broadwood pianoforte. Not once had he heard her play, and he had a sinking feeling that she did not know how. His mother and Clare had entertained the family circle and guests alike with their delightful performances, leaving all (except the usually slumbering viscount) enchanted. Since these occasions were among the few pictures of domestic harmony which Cranford could call forth from his own memory, the fact that Trelenny did not fit into them was more than discouraging. It was depressing.

Impatiently he spun about and headed for the stables, where he learned that Wetherby had found an old saddle of Clare’s stored in a little used cabinet under a variety of worn blankets. The groom watched him curiously as he studied the design of the horn, knee rest, fork base, and cantle. “Is someat wrong, sir?”

“Hmm. Certainly it is not a particularly safe or practical seat. Put it on Luckless if you will.” Cranford ignored the groom’s horrified expression and stood thoughtfully tapping his long fingers against a bench, his eyes unseeing but his mind rapidly considering and rejecting various innovations. When the groom called his attention to the fact that the horse awaited, Cranford nodded and, oblivious to the sensation he caused, swung himself onto the sidesaddle, muttering, “Damned awkward.”

The stable staff watched with astonishment as he put Luckless through his paces and eventually disappeared from their sight as he rode along a wooded path leading uphill. Although he did not return for half an hour, the men and boys made no comment and avoided one another’s eyes as they went about their work. Definitely the young master had changed since his mother had died, but out of respect for their memory of him as a reckless youth they would not discuss the matter. If they could overlook his penchant for bringing home broken jars and muddy old coins, at his age, then they could try to overlook his riding out on a sidesaddle!

Even though he was an expert rider, Cranford found it difficult to adapt himself to the seat required by the saddle. Jumping was particularly difficult as his knees did not find the purchase they ordinarily had. Luckless, unused to the strange balance of the load he carried, attempted several times to unseat his rider, and very nearly succeeded when they jumped a low wall onto descending ground. Cranford returned to the stables more thoughtful than he had been when he left.

 Unfortunately, Lord Chessels had tired of his work on the estate books and had determined to have a ride before dusk. He was just swinging himself up onto his bay stallion when his son rode into the stableyard. An angry red suffused his face to an accompanying roar. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Attempting to assess the safety and practicality of a sidesaddle, sir.”

“Don’t you think perhaps you should be wearing a skirt?” his father asked in a voice laden with sarcasm.

Cranford considered the suggestion. “Yes, you are undoubtedly right, Father. It would be impossible to consider the safety without taking into consideration the wearing apparel used in conjunction with the sidesaddle.”

Infuriated, Lord Chessels raised his whip, and, for the second time that day, Cranford automatically moved to protect himself. He twisted the whip from his father’s grip and tossed it to the ground. The movement was unexpected
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but Lord Chessels in his fury lashed his hand across the young man’s face. Cranford sat perfectly still in the ridiculous saddle, the red of the handmark vivid against his white face. In a cold, detached voice he said, “You were always one to act without sufficient information. Miss Storwood complained of the insecurity of a sidesaddle in our rough part of the country. In an effort to ... accommodate her, I am endeavoring to work out a saddle with a better seat. I had hoped that she might be pleased with such a service on my part.”

Lord Chessels merely sneered. “More fool she if anything you do pleases her.”

“Doubtless it was a vain hope," Cranford replied stiffly. His voice dropped to a murmur. “I am sure you would prefer a daughter-in-law who rides astride.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed, but instead of replying he dug his heels into the bay and rode off at a gallop. When he was out of sight, Cranford dismounted but did not touch the whip which lay at his feet. Instead he allowed Wetherby to lead Luckless to his stall, instructing that the saddle be taken to the workshop. “Tell Gillray I will be by tomorrow morning to discuss some changes I wish him to make in the saddle. And have the chestnuts ready in half an hour. I’ll be taking the phaeton.”

“You be wantin’ me to come with you?” Wetherby asked eagerly.

“No, not tonight.”

The scene between father and son had been witnessed by all, and Cranford received encouraging smiles from the men he passed as he headed back toward the house. Without a glance, he avoided the whip where it lay in the dirt, and when he returned some time later, dressed in an elegant coat of navy with light gray pantaloons and Hessians, it was still there. Expressionlessly he climbed into the carriage and gathered the ribbons in his hands. The snapping of the whip under the wheels of the phaeton caused an audible sigh from the apparently occupied stable staff, but not a muscle moved in Cranford’s impassive face.

Wetherby grunted as the phaeton gathered speed. “You seed him. And you heard him,” he declared belligerently to no one in particular. “There’s nothing amiss with young Mr. Ashwicke. He’s a-fixin’ the saddle for Miss Storwood. A man can’t know what needs a-fixin’ without he tries it hisself, by God. And I’m a-willin’ to take on any man who thinks otherways. Just say one word agin him…” Adopting the stance he considered most appropriate to a fighter, and looking for all the world like a bantam cock, Wetherby stared a challenge at his co-workers.

“Back down, big fellow,” the coachman called jocularly. “Ain’t a one of us thinks any different from you. He be worth a dozen of his pappy, and so I’d swear on a stack of Bibles. Only one of you tells his lordship I said so, and I’ll break his neck, I will. Give over, Wetherby. Young master may be an an-tee-quary but he’s a right-un.”

Once the phaeton had gained the main road, which ran from Shap to Kendal, Cranford found himself caught up in the melancholy atmosphere of the chain of mountainous moors over which he passed. Darkness was falling, but the last rays of the setting sun touched on the uncultivated land with a mysterious light which never failed to fascinate the young man. It was at such times of day when he could most easily imagine those Roman settlements which had spread over Britain so long ago. Kendal itself might well have been the Roman station of Concangium, and Cranford had studied with avid curiosity the Roman inscriptions and altars that remained there, the urns found in the riverbank, and the stones and pieces of Roman bricks occasionally thrown up by the plow. Especially interesting to him were the coins and seals, particularly the one supposed to be Janus quadrifons and the medal of Faustina. After the disruptions of the day Cranford spent a pleasant hour lost in the mysteries of the past before he began the descent to Kendal, seated on the west bank of the river and flourishing with all the prosperity the changing times could muster for the mercers, sheermen, cordwainers, tanners, glovers, tailors, and pewterers who plied their trades there. Its two main streets, neatly paved, crossed each other and were lined with shops and manufactories. The knit stockings, Kendal cottons, and linsey woolsey the town was famous for could be the more easily forgotten at night when the darkness obscured the evidence of trade, and the warm glow of light issuing from the public rooms of the King’s Arms invited the visitor to join the merriment within.

But it was not to the inn that Cranford directed his pair. He crossed the stone bridge leading out of town and continued a short distance along the main road. Though the light from the carriage lamp seemed feeble in the blackness, he had no difficulty in discerning the drive which gave onto the road from the left; he’d been this way before. There was nothing exceptional about the house he approached. It might have been any one of the modest homes of the wealthier tradesmen, a classic stone structure of a pleasing simplicity and symmetry with well-kept lawns and flower borders. The buildings were out of sight of the road, but no one in the neighborhood was unaware of their existence. And yet it was the best-kept secret in the north of England.

The groom who appeared at the sound of the approaching carriage lifted the lantern he carried close enough to allow him a careful look at Cranford, and his suspicious countenance softened into a welcoming smile. There was nothing tightfisted about Mr. Ashwicke; though it was evident that he was not one of your particularly well-heeled gentlemen, he never grudged a handsome gratuity for the care of his horses. “Fine night, sir. Shall I be giving them a good rub-down?”

“If you would, Will. Mrs. Reed is enjoying her usual good health, I presume.”

“Never better, an’ I’m any judge.” The boy grinned. His employer held his devotion but hardly his awe.

“Excellent. Is there anyone here I am likely to know?”

“Aye, Mr. Rusholme and Mr. Bodford arrived not this half hour past.”

“Tony must have made a recovery,” Cranford murmured as he turned to leave.

The flambeaux on either side of the door lit the gravel path well enough to aid the visitor, and the flicker of candlelight from the first-floor drawing room gave the place a festive air which was not belied by entry into the hall. Ablaze with light and well supplied with liveried footmen, the hall had the atmosphere of a private party carried out to perfection. Entry was not by card, however, but by personal recommendation from a previous visitor, with Mrs. Reed having the final word on any newcomer. Cranford gave his hat and gloves to the footman and cast a hasty glance in the gilt-framed glass above the hall table. The black cravat he sported was rather a personal joke, poking fun at his own solemnity at those times when he discussed his researches on Roman ruins. His reflection assured him that there was nothing amiss with the folds of the cravat, or the straight black hair, but one of the high cheekbones retained a redness where his father’s ringed hand had scraped the skin. With an impatient shrug, he turned aside to climb the finely carved oak staircase.

A dozen people stood about the room into which he was ushered, and all turned as he was announced. Mrs. Reed, a petite, aging beauty, tripped forward with outstretched hands. “Ah, Cranford, you have chosen to honor us with your presence. It’s been some time and we thought you had forgotten us.”

“Impossible,” he retorted as he raised her hand to his lips. “You look as charming as ever, Sally. Am I in time for dinner?”

“That’s all men ever think about,” she admonished him.

"Hardly. . . in your house.” His eyes strayed in turn to the five other women in the room, each elegantly dressed, all enchantingly beautiful. “I believe there has been an addition since last I was here.”

“Margaret.” Mrs. Reed motioned to a fiery-haired damsel as she spoke the name. “May I present Mr. Ashwicke to you, Margaret? He hasn’t been here since you came, so we can surely accuse him of at least three months’ neglect.”

“I had to marshal my resources,” he complained laughingly, “after that last foray into faro. Miss Margaret, I am charmed to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Ashwicke.” The emerald-green eyes studied him frankly and a dimple appeared as she smiled. “Mr. Bodford has spoken of you.”

“Has he now? And what could the bounder possibly have told you to call forth such a smile? I personally never believe a word he says.”

“How unfair, Cranford!” declared a sturdily built young man who appeared at his elbow. “I need all the credibility I can muster with Miss Margaret and don’t you go spoiling it. Told her nothing but that you were top of the trees, I promise.”

“And that you collect broken tombstones,” Margaret added, her eyes twinkling.

“I never!” Mr. Bodford protested. “You must be thinking of Rusholme. He is the one who thinks you’re a ghoul, like Selwyn, but I have never known you to chase after funeral processions or frequent Tyburn. The man must have been dicked in the nob—Selwyn, I mean, not you, Cranford.” Bodford eyed Margaret with mock reproach. “Now see what you’ve done, my dear. Gotten me all twisted up. Cranford is the best of fellows even if he does like to grub about in ruins. Just don’t talk to him about old fortifications and you will find him a charming conversationalist. But be warned! One mention of the moldering past and he’s off! I tell you only for your own protection, I assure you.”

Cranford laughed. “It is no more than the truth, Miss Margaret. Once I get on my hobby horse, I am like to forget that my audience does not perhaps share my fascination with antiquities. Mrs. Reed has a habit of squelching my enthusiasm rather effectively, however.”

Mrs. Reed regarded him affectionately. “You need do no more than call him ‘Professor,’ Margaret. It has the most wonderful effect on him.”

The young woman dimpled again and said solemnly, “I shall remember.”

“Come, Cranford,” Mrs. Reed urged, linking her arm with his, “You’ve had no chance to speak with the others and it’s nearly time for dinner.”

When the gong sounded, Cranford offered his arm to the young woman standing beside him, an elegantly tall, fair-haired beauty named Kitty. It was not the first time he had escorted her to dinner; in fact, when he came to Mrs. Reed’s he invariably sought her out. There was a refinement about her wholly at odds with her way of life. Soft-spoken and surprisingly dignified, she was not the choice of most of the men who came, but she was a favorite of Mrs. Reed’s because of her decided air of class. Mrs. Reed ran a very distinguished establishment and tolerated no ill-mannered ruffians amongst her guests, nor unseemly public behavior from her girls. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays her doors were open to those privileged few whom she deemed worthy of entry; if any man dared treat her house as a common gaming house or brothel, he was quickly escorted from the premises and denied future entry. Her standards were high, and Miss Kitty, in her opinion, helped to set the tone of the house.