Belinda Goes to Bath Read online

  As they hung their clothes away in the wardrobe, Hannah said cheerfully to Belinda that she was sure their one great adventure was all they would have on this journey, the Bath road being famous for its safety and absence of footpads and highwaymen. Belinda’s face fell. Although she did not exactly wish Miss Wimple’s death, she could not help hoping another accident would befall that lady. Coping with Great-Aunt Harriet was something she felt she might be able to do herself were not Miss Wimple around to drop poison into that relative’s ear.

  They were to take up another passenger when they resumed their journey, a Methodist minister called Mr Biles, who was residing at the inn. Hannah thought, when they all met up at the dinner-table, that he looked surprisingly like Miss Wimple. He had the same heavy features and the same moralizing manner, and the same weakness for strong drink. Hannah told him of their adventures, to which he replied that God moved in mysterious ways. Hannah described the accident to Miss Wimple. Mr Biles said solemnly that his duty lay with the patient and he would call on her. Hannah enthusiastically agreed, adding she was sure Miss Wimple would find a strong sermon very fortifying, and did Mr Biles have one with him? Mr Biles replied that he prided himself on giving extempore sermons, to which Hannah retorted, ‘All the better.’ After dinner, she cheerfully led him to Miss Wimple’s bedchamber and shut the door on the couple, considering that a middle-aged spinster and a minister need not worry about the conventions.

  ‘But,’ mocked a voice in her head, ‘say you yourself were alone with Sir George Clarence in an inn bedchamber …’

  Her mind clamped down on the thought. Sir George, brother of her late employer, had befriended her, it was true. But he was far above her. To think of him in any terms warmer than admiration and friendship was folly and impertinence.

  She went back downstairs. The Judds and Belinda had moved to the coffee room.

  ‘I do not like Miss Wimple,’ said Belinda in a low voice, ‘but do you not think Mr Biles too strong a punishment for anyone?’

  ‘No, I think they will deal together extremely well.’

  But when Mr Biles eventually reappeared, Hannah wondered if she had done the right thing. There was a definite reforming gleam in his eye as he surveyed Belinda. Hannah privatedly damned Miss Wimple as a malicious gossip and took herself upstairs to remind that lady that if she told anyone at all about Belinda’s unfortunate experience, she, Hannah Pym, would have no alternative but to report her to her employers.

  Not knowing that Hannah had only guessed that she had been talking about Belinda, Miss Wimple thought it was Mr Biles who had told her and felt mortified, for had she not sworn the minister to secrecy? But Mr Biles called on her before bedtime and protested his innocence with such vehemence that Miss Wimple’s spirits were restored. And then, to add fuel to her malice towards her charge, a letter for her arrived by hand from the castle. It was from Penelope Jordan, who wrote that Belinda had been flirting shamelessly with the marquess and had even written to him arranging an assignation. She begged Miss Wimple to be careful of her charge, saying she had warned Miss Pym about the proposed assignation as she felt poor Miss Wimple was too ill to cope, but it was obvious that Miss Pym had lax morals and had done nothing.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, Miss Wimple showed Mr Biles the letter.

  After exclaiming in horror at the contents, Mr Biles asked who this Miss Jordan was.

  ‘She is a young lady of sterling character,’ said Miss Wimple, concealing the fact that, because of her accident, she had not set eyes on her. ‘The housekeeper who was nursing me told me she is to wed the Marquess of Frenton. What am I to do with that wretched girl? First a footman, and now she is wantonly pursuing a marquess who has no intention of marrying her.’

  ‘I shall speak to her and bring her to recognize the folly of her ways,’ said Mr Biles, who was enjoying all this intrigue immensely. But Miss Wimple thought of Hannah Pym and shuddered. She did not want to lose her comfortable and well-paid position as companion to Belinda until she had secured another post. ‘It would not serve,’ she said firmly. ‘We both travel to The Bath. May I persuade you to assist me in keeping an eye on the young lady?’

  ‘It is my duty as a man of the cloth,’ he said sententiously. ‘No man shall come near her when I am nigh.’

  ‘He was back in her bedchamber again,’ said Hannah as she and Belinda prepared for bed, ‘and I fear she is a gossip. I am perfectly sure she told him about that footman.’

  ‘She must be stopped!’ said Belinda, aghast.

  ‘Yes, but how?’ Hannah sat down on the edge of the bed next to Belinda and, worried though she was, studied her feet, of which she was inordinately proud, with some complacency. ‘I fear I shall have to call on your aunt when we reach Bath and explain to her that your companion is ruining your reputation.’

  ‘I suppose I should not refine on it too much.’ Belinda sighed. ‘It is not as if a Methodist minister is the height of fashion. He will not frequent the same circles as Great-Aunt Harriet.’

  ‘But the Marquess of Frenton will,’ said Hannah.

  Shocked and dismayed, Belinda stared at her. ‘Yes, my dear,’ said Hannah. ‘Now that we are away from the castle, I must tell you that Miss Wimple must have told Frenton about that footman, and in such terms that he thought you open to his advances.’

  Belinda hung her head. ‘How mortifying. Miss Wimple did tell me. But I was silly enough to think he might have cared for me a little. Who am I, after all, when compared to such as Penelope Jordan?’

  ‘You are a young lady of heart and feeling,’ said Hannah. ‘It was the marquess who came out of that adventure badly and not you. Now that he knows you to be respectable, for you may be sure I put him straight on that matter, he may readjust his thoughts. The Jordans are dull, and despite lineage and money, very common. If he cares for you at all, he will come and find you. If all he wanted was an easy diversion, then you are much better off without him.’

  ‘It makes him seem so much less noble,’ said Belinda. ‘I thought he was so far above me. He behaved disgracefully, for even had I lost my honour to that footman, I am still an unmarried young lady of good family and not some tavern wench.’

  ‘That kind never stops to think when something they want comes across their path.’ Hannah patted Belinda’s hand. ‘I heard a little from the servants. He was left quite poor when his father died and restored the family fortune by intelligence and hard work. But a marquess is a marquess, and money or not, he must have been courted and fêted as soon as he was out of short coats. Any female he wants is his for the taking. Do you still care for him?’

  Belinda shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I cannot think clearly. Every time I try to think of him, I can only think of my own wanton behaviour. Passion is a cheat, as you surely know, Miss Pym.’

  Hannah looked at Belinda doubtfully. Ladies did not feel passion. Everyone knew that, or rather, everyone except Belinda Earle. She herself had never been swayed by such feelings, even when she was the lowest of servants. Certainly, she had been smitten by that under-butler, but that had been a shy and tremulous yearning of the spirit for a friend. Men had lusts, women had love, that was the difference. Perhaps Belinda’s ancestors had slipped up somewhere and introduced a vulgar strain into the blood.

  ‘Was Miss Wimple very angry when you said you would not share a room with her?’ asked Hannah, changing the subject as they both climbed into bed.

  ‘Not really. I told her that, as an invalid, she would be better in a room by herself. Are not the conventions strange, Miss Pym? For all we know, Miss Wimple may have been indulging in Roman orgies with Mr Biles, and yet it is all right for them to be locked up in a bedchamber together.’

  Hannah began to giggle helplessly. ‘Why, what is the matter?’ asked Belinda.

  ‘I am trying not to imagine Miss Wimple indulging in orgies,’ laughed Hannah. ‘Did you mark her head? Her hair has started to grow in, a sort of fuzz all over. She looks like a fledgling vulture.’
>
  ‘Have you ever seen a vulture?’ asked Belinda, settling back against the pillows and hoping to wheedle a bedtime story from her new friend.

  ‘I saw a drawing in a book in the library in Thornton Hall.’

  ‘Did you always read much?’

  ‘No,’ said Hannah. ‘I was barely literate when I arrived at Thornton Hall, but so ambitious!’

  ‘So how did you learn to read and write? Oh, I know. I wager it was the beautiful Mrs Clarence.’

  ‘Yes. It was when I was the between-stairs maid. She found me one day glaring at a newspaper and turning it this way and that, and asked me gently if I could read. I said I could only make out a very few of the words. But she had hired a nursery maid—’

  ‘She had children? You did not mention children.’

  Hannah shook her head sadly. ‘She was so very sure she would have children, don’t you see. She had a nursery all prepared, cradle and toys, and everything so dainty and pretty. She hired the nursery maid, saying she had such a good reputation she wanted to snatch her up while she could. But nothing ever happened. I remember one day passing the nursery and hearing singing. Mrs Clarence was sitting there, rocking the empty cradle and singing a lullaby. It made me cry. I never told anyone.’

  Hannah fell silent.

  ‘The nursery maid,’ prompted Belinda gently.

  ‘She was young and kind. I think she came from quite a good family which had come down in the world. I was given half an hour’s lesson by her each evening. Her name was Dorothy Friend, and she was a Quaker. A suitable name for a Quaker. I learned very rapidly. Then Mr Clarence grew impatient with what he called “this farce of a nursery” and she was dismissed. Mrs Clarence found her a post in another household. But by the time she was dismissed, I had learned to read and write and add and subtract figures. Sometimes, when I look back over my life,’ said Hannah sadly, ‘I do not think of all the people who harmed me, but quite often of all the kindnesses and wish I could go back and say “thank you” properly.’

  She closed her eyes. But Belinda did not want to be left alone with thoughts of the marquess.

  ‘Did you always want to travel?’ she asked.

  Hannah shook her head. ‘For a long time, I was content, working my way up. But when Mrs Clarence ran away, half the servants were dismissed and half the house shut up. It was sad and gloomy, and without guests there was little work to do compared with what had gone before. Thornton Hall began to seem like a prison. I would rise very early each morning, make tea, and then slip up to the drawing-room and open the windows and wait for the first stage-coach to go hurtling by, far away from Thornton Hall.’

  ‘Was Mr Clarence kind?’

  ‘Oh, he was a good employer. I wish he had been a better husband. Sir George, his brother, told me that Mr Clarence was always a difficult and moody man and it was that which had driven his wife away.’

  There was a note of pride in Hannah’s voice when she mentioned Sir George.

  ‘This Sir George Clarence, do you know him well?’ asked Belinda.

  ‘Quite well,’ said Hannah. ‘He was most kind after my employer died. He arranged a bank account for me and he took me to tea at Gunter’s.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘No,’ said Hannah stiffly.

  ‘But he took you to Gunter’s.’

  ‘As I said, he is most kind.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘What questions you do ask, my child. Fifties.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Belinda.

  ‘And what does that “aha” mean?’

  ‘It means, Miss Pym, that a marriageable bachelor took you to Gunter’s.’

  ‘Sir George is an honourable and kind gentleman, that is all,’ said Hannah, suddenly cross with Belinda, but not knowing why. ‘Go to sleep!’

  Belinda turned over on her side. Between a crack in the bed-hangings shone a spark of light from the rushlight on the bedside table. She stared at it, hypnotized, trying to concentrate on that pin-point of light and empty her brain of thoughts of the marquess. But the thoughts came just the same … What was he doing? … Did he think of her?

  The Marquess of Frenton was being prepared for bed by his Swiss manservant. He turned over the day in his mind. Penelope had started to give orders to the servants as if she were already the lady of the castle. He had to admit he felt trapped. He had at no time expressed a wish to marry her, and yet by inviting her and her parents to the castle as his only guests, he had led her to believe he would marry her.

  He must get away. But he could not bear to leave the Jordans in residence.

  But where?

  He had a married sister, Mary, Lady Arnold, who lived in Bath. He had not seen Mary in some time and a visit was long overdue. He was not very fond of his sister, for Mary, older than he by three years, had seen no point in his determination in the early days to keep the castle and estates. She was anxious to secure a good dowry and saw the maintenance of the castle as eating up any possible dowry she might have. But she had married well, although she was fond of saying it was thanks to her own efforts and no thanks to her brother. Still, she was his sister and he should pay her a call.

  He wondered about Miss Earle and what she thought of him, or if she thought of him. He should be grateful to the redoubtable Miss Pym for interrupting them. He wished now he had not been in such a hurry to be shot of the stage-coach passengers. Miss Pym had entertained him with her forthright manner and the singing of the Judds had been a delight. Belinda Earle had enjoyed the music, to which Penelope appeared totally deaf. He remembered Belinda’s expressive face and the emotions flitting across her large eyes. Why was it considered bad ton for women to betray emotions? On reflection, he considered it was only considered bad ton to show real emotion. A lady could not laugh out loud with pleasure, but she could give that high, chiming, artificial laugh taught by her music teacher. She could not betray either horror or disgust, but she was allowed to faint or cry genteelly to show sensibility. And passion? Never! Never was any lady supposed to burn and sigh and moan in his arms like Belinda Earle. And on that thought came a craving, a hunger, to see her again.

  His valet slipped a night-gown over the marquess’s head, saw his master into bed, and then retired, slipping out of the room as soft-footed as a cat.

  Why can I not see her again? thought the marquess suddenly. This is ridiculous. She is young, unmarried, and of good family.

  He began to make plans. First he must get rid of the Jordans.

  The Jordans rose early, or rather, early for them. Nine o’clock and the castle was resounding with scrapes and bangs and thumps. The smell of paint was everywhere.

  Struggling into his dressing-gown, Sir Henry rang the bell and demanded testily to know what the deuce the infernal row was all about.

  The chambermaid bobbed a curtsy and said his lordship was having every room redecorated.

  ‘He can’t!’ wailed Lady Henry, sitting up in bed, her nightcap askew. ‘Penelope!’ For their darling daughter was highly sensitive to the smell of fresh paint.

  Sir Henry dressed at great speed and went in search of the marquess. There seemed to be paint-pots and ladders and workmen everywhere.

  ‘Ah, Sir Henry,’ called the marquess cheerfully as that gentleman ran him to earth in the breakfast-room.

  ‘You must send all these decorators away,’ said Sir Henry wrathfully. ‘The smell of paint makes my poor Penelope ill.’

  The marquess affected concern. ‘My dear Sir Henry. What am I to do? It is hard for the local artisans to find work in the winter. I cannot cut off their employ. But as I am leaving shortly, it might be a good idea if you started on your journey as well.’

  ‘But you have not yet proposed to my daughter, or have you?’ barked Sir Henry, almost beside himself with fury and thwarted hope.

  The marquess’s eyes went quite blank. ‘I have not yet proposed to your daughter, nor shall I. I fear I am a confirmed bachelor.’

  ‘You led us to believe the
knot was as good as tied.’

  ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘Damme, that trolley I bought you at great expense, mark you, at great expense, was by way of an engagement present.’

  The marquess turned to the butler, who was standing by the sideboard. ‘Hemmings,’ he said, ‘take said trolley from the dining-room, parcel it up, and give it back to Sir Henry; or better still, put it in his carriage with his baggage and have his carriage brought round to the front door in readiness. Unfortunately, Sir Henry finds himself obliged to leave.’

  ‘Pah!’ said Sir Henry, hopping up and down in rage and disappointment. ‘Pah, pah, and pooh to you, sir!’

  The marquess picked up the morning paper and began to read it.

  It was hard to tell, when the Jordans left, whether Penelope was crying with rage or weeping from the effects of the paint. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  ‘I shall never forgive her. Never!’ said Penelope as the carriage drove off.

  ‘Who?’ asked her mother.

  ‘That Belinda Earle creature and her sluttish ways.’

  ‘Put it all out of your mind,’ said Lady Jordan. ‘Frenton is quite mad. Have you your book, Sir Henry?’

  ‘Already looking,’ muttered Sir Henry. He kept a book of all the noble families with eligible sons and their addresses. ‘Here it is,’ he said at last. ‘Lord Frederick, eldest son of the Earl of Twitterton. They have a box between Shepherd’s Shore and Devizes. You have not met Lord Frederick, Penelope. He is returned from the Grand Tour this month. We shall strike while the iron is hot.’

  The marquess, having started the decoration to get rid of the Jordans, decided to go ahead with it and stayed to supervise. Miss Earle would be at the inn close at hand for the next few days. Having made up his mind to see her again, caution set in and he decided he did not want to appear too eager. He did not know her very well, after all.