The Bumblebroth (19 page)

"Tomorrow," Mattie said bravely to Pamela, as they made their way up the creaking stairs, "we shall buy ourselves a guidebook and explore the town."

Chapter Eleven

Mattie did find a guidebook the next afternoon, but not before many surprising and pleasant things had occurred.

She was awakened in the morning by a cheerful maid who brought chocolate to her in bed. Then, she had no sooner dressed with this girl's help than she was served the most delicious breakfast imaginable in a quiet parlour Mr. Arnold had reserved for her and Pamela.

"Your Grace didn't say nothing about taking my best room, but I took the liberty of holding it back for you, thinking you might be more cosy-like in here."

"That was most kind of you," Mattie replied, and indeed, she was more than a little grateful to him. The singers' voices had been pleasant, but she was not at all certain she would have wanted to sit in a crowded tap-room, surrounded by a group of strange men.

This private parlour was the sort of thing an experienced traveler would have known how to speak for directly, and Mattie was afraid that Mr. Arnold would hold her in disgust for not knowing any better.

"You see," she explained hesitantly, "my daughter and I had planned to stay with her uncle, His Grace of Upavon, but we arrived to find his house closed up."

At Mr. Arnold's curious look, she hastened to cover her mistake. "My letter, warning him of our arrival, must have missed him, but since that was my intention, I have not brought my servants with me."

"Ah, I see, Your Grace." Mr. Arnold smiled without a trace of suspicion. "I couldn't help but see that your maid was not with you. That's why I sent our Betty up to your room. I hope she satisfied."

"Oh, yes, indeed!" Mattie could breathe easily now that he had accepted her facile explanation. Feeling much better as a result, she just had to ask, "This marmalade, Mr. Arnold. It is so good, you must tell me where you procured it." As she spoke, Mattie spooned another thick dollop upon the fresh bread that had accompanied her bacon and eggs.

Mr. Arnold accepted the compliment with a bow and a flush of pride. "That's what the missus puts by, and she'll be that glad to know you liked it. I'm sure she'd be happy to give you the receipt. I can send her in, if you like."

"Yes, I would like that enormously." Mattie watched him bow himself out, reflecting sadly that even if she managed to get the receipt, Cook would surely not be persuaded to try it. Not that she would refuse, but she would say how much her ankles hurt if she stood too long at the stove, which putting up preserves would necessarily require, and the long and short of it would be that Mattie would end by revoking her request.

Reflections like these, and the novel sensation of being out on her own, occupied her mind her first morning in Bath, so that she did not have much time to brood about William. Mrs. Arnold was pleased that Mattie liked her cooking, and both she and her husband seemed anxious to make Mattie's stay comfortable.

But these people must not know about the scandal of my first marriage, Mattie told herself. Or if they did, they were not in a position to hold it against her. It was the Ton who would remember and not forgive.

Mattie was in her room, bracing herself to face them on a walk about the town before returning home, when she received a visitor.

The name on his card meant nothing to her until Mr. Arnold informed her that the gentleman asking to see her was none other than Master of the Ceremonies of the Upper Assembly Rooms. It seemed that Mr. Arnold, pleased to be entrusted with such an important visitor, had sent a boy to notify Mr. King of her arrival in their town.

"I knew he would want to know right away that Your Grace was here," Mr. Arnold said, surprising Mattie completely.

She almost asked why, but then remembered she had been married to a duke and that she was a duchess.

"You may show him into the parlour," she said, wiping her damp palms upon her skirt. Mattie took a quick look in the glass upon her dressing table to make sure her hair was not a mess. She could be glad for the gown from Madame Riviere, for she had nothing to be anxious about in her dress.

When she entered the little parlour, a well-starched gentleman rose and extended her his deepest bow.

"Your Grace." His white hat, so peculiar in colour, nearly scraped the floor. "I hope I do not intrude upon you too early in the day."

As it was nearly noon, and Mattie was used to being up and out long before this hour, she could only stammer, "Not at all. In fact, I was on the point of going out."

Thinking that perhaps these words did not convey her pleasure to receive his call, she amended them with, "To find a guidebook and explore your delightful city."

Mr. King beamed at the compliment, as if he and not the celebrated architect, Mr. John Wood, were responsible for the elegant buildings to be found here. He begged her to take a chair and held one for her, then asked if he might be so bold as to join her.

"Certainly." Mattie suppressed a smile. The man was so obsequious, and yet so self-important, as to raise a bubble of mirth even in her untutored head.

Once he was seated, she expressed her surprise over his visit.

"Ah, Your Grace understands the burdens upon my time." Mr. King spoke with a sigh. "You must have seen at a glance that the great extension of our city makes it impossible for me to be regularly informed of the several persons who arrive here, but a visitor of your distinction must surely be greeted or you would have just cause to complain of a want of attention. Mr. Arnold is to be commended for calling your arrival to my notice, else I might have made the error, through no intention of mine, I assure you, of neglecting Your Grace in favour of a person of lesser importance."

"I see," Mattie said, and she began to see, in fact, that she was regarded by some, at least, to be vastly important. The fact that her position as a dowager duchess was entirely responsible did not lessen her relief, not when her fear of being rejected had been so high.

Perhaps the scandal about her marriage was so old that she would not be cut as she had feared. Or maybe the Ton had had time to forgive her perceived mistake, given the quiet nature of her behaviour since.

Then, Pamela would be all right. But Mattie swore she would do nothing to rouse the enmity of society now, such as marrying a man younger than she who must be regarded as one of its greatest prizes.

At the thought of William, her heart filled with lead, but she did not allow her visitor to see her sorrow. She smiled and nodded while Mr. King described to her the amusements of the Upper Rooms, which, under any other circumstances, would have sounded delightful.

But she had forgotten that she could not stay in Bath.

When Mr. King paused to gather breath, Mattie took the opportunity to say, "I am certain my daughter and I would enjoy your assemblies, and I, myself, came with the intention of taking the waters, but I am afraid we cannot stay." She proceeded to the same story she had given Mr. Arnold.

After only a brief pause, Mr. King offered a polite protest. "But surely Your Grace could hire a house?"

"Yes, but— "

"You need not think it will be too difficult. With such a continual succession of arrivals and departures, a lodging suitable to every wish is generally quite easy to find."

"Yes, I would, you see, but— " Mattie flushed to admit her incompetence— "if only I had brought my servants with me, but. . . . "

"I understand perfectly, Your Grace." Mr. King inclined his head. "With such excellent servants as you naturally possess, one would hesitate to accept the services of— shall we say— a lesser-trained sort. But I can assure Your Grace that here in Bath you will find a number of qualified persons as would suit your purposes quite adequately for an indefinite stay. In fact— "

        Mr. King drew a card from his pocket and handed it to Mattie. "If I might suggest . . . the name here is that of a superior agency for recommending just that sort of individual Your Grace might require." Then, a different notion seemed to enter to his mind, for he added, "But . . . if I might be permitted . . . ?"

Mattie nodded, ready to permit Mr. King anything so long as he would not expect her to call upon the agency and engage an entire household of new servants.

He continued, "I have just been put in mind of a house that might not only be available, but could be taken with its full complement of servants. Lady Findlay—  But perhaps, you know her?"

Mattie did not.

"A charming lady, if I may be permitted to say. In any case, her ladyship resides in Bath the year around because of the healthful benefit of our waters. But," he added, "due to the persistent nature of her complaint, I am afraid her medical man has prescribed a different cure, and she has left us to tour the Lake Country for the season, taking— since her purposes are related to health and only temporary in nature— only her maid and coachman."

Mattie followed this embellished tale to its end, and then asked timidly, "What you are saying is that, perhaps, Lady Findlay could be persuaded to let me her house for the remainder of the season? A house for which no additional servants would be required?"

"Precisely, Your Grace, with the exception of a maid for yourself, of course, for which task the agency I have suggested to you might safely be applied. And if you would permit me to act as intermediary, I am certain her ladyship would be more than delighted at the arrangement."

Mattie sat and reflected upon the daring notion of taking a house for the season— all on her own.

The servants would be strangers. Besides John Coachman, there would be no one familiar to her. She would have to face them all and learn their idiosyncrasies.

But wasn't that why she had come to Bath? To get away from everyone at home? Anyone who knew her and might guess that she had nearly embarrassed herself and that her heart had been broken?

She would have to hire a maid, for no duchess would establish herself in town and then dress herself.

With a disloyal thrill, she thought of how much fun it might be to buy more new dresses and have an eager, youthful soul around to rave over each one. With such new experiences to cheer her, she might even be able to forget for a minute or two how much she missed William. She might even offer the position— temporarily, of course— to Mr. Arnold's cheerful daughter.

"How soon do you think you might get a response from Lady Findlay?" she asked Mr. King.

"By return mail," he answered promptly. "I have taken it upon myself to perform a few slight services on her ladyship's behalf, since her departure was so sudden. As a result, we have been in frequent communication, and since I believe I know what her mind will be upon this subject, you might consider the agreement as having already been made."

He smiled roguishly, with the air of a man who would expect a return for his services. "And I hope this means we may be permitted to expect your delightful presence at our assemblies?"

All had been concluded so fast that Mattie suddenly found herself breathless, and unable to speak, she simply nodded her accord to what moments before had seemed an impossibility.

She had taken a house. She and Pamela, in no more than a few days, would be living in a place they had never seen, surrounded by strangers, and Mattie, herself, would be mistress of the entire establishment. It was almost more than she could believe, but it was exactly what was needed. This way, she would not have to face either William, or Lady Westbury, or Mrs. Puckeridge, or even Gilly again, until she had recovered from her broken heart.

* * * *

After discovering the duke's house closed and inquiring at all the inns, William traced his prey to Lady Findlay's house quite easily. He applauded Mattie's industry in finding a suitable lodging on her own and the courage which had led her to do it. William decided, however, not to threaten her by appearing on her doorstep, but instead frequented the places in which he thought he might see her.

In Bath, this was quite simple. Every person of rank, resident and visitor alike, could be expected to make an appearance in the Pump-room in the mornings. After an interval of a decent number of days, by which time he hoped Mattie would have got her feet on the ground, and during which he helped Gerald exercise their horses, William strolled from his room at the White Hart in Stall Street to the nearby Pump-room.

He saw her immediately, sitting near a Corinthian column in the midst of a group of elderly gentlemen, who seemed quite intent on securing her attention. William smiled to see how quickly she had gained a circle of admirers, and he determined to become one of them. He looked about the large room, hoping to spot an acquaintance who could perform an introduction.

He was not long in finding one. An aged friend of his father's, who walked with a cane, had taken a place near the door. Sir Reginald Pursey gladly greeted his old crony's son in a rather loud voice.

"Westbury, my boy! What brings you to this ghastly place? Not taking the waters, I hope, like the rest of us?"  Sir Reginald made a face over the glass in his hand. "Vile stuff! But they say it does wonders for the gout, so I'm condemned to try it." Another thought seized him. "Not attending your mother, are you?"

"No, sir. Just visiting." William allowed his gaze to wander back to where Mattie was holding court and said, "I thought you might be able to tell me who that ravishing creature is."

"An't she?" Sir Reginald's eyes had followed William's and located Mattie with little effort. "She's the Duchess of Upavon, my lad, and now we know why the old codger kept her to himself. Though they do say he was never one for society." He cocked an eye towards William, who did nothing to hide his admiration of Mattie's beauty. "Thinking of having a go at the dowager, are you?"

"If I can get myself presented. Would you do the honours?"

Sir Reginald barked a laugh. "I have got that far, at least, though you've got to be a mite faster than me on this damned stick to get close to that one. And don't think I haven't tried. Why, if I were just ten years younger— "