The landlady smooths over the awkwardness of Mr Osmund’s defeat.
‘Dear me, we’re full to the rafters,’ she says, looking over the tally and ushering us inside. ‘You three maids will have to share. Your names, if you please, ladies, and where you’re from?’
‘Miss Amesbury. From Erlestoke, near Westbury.’
The elder sister draws herself up as tall as she can, which is not very. ‘Miss Bridget Lamborne, and my sister Miss Jane Lamborne,’ she announces. ‘Both of Manor Farm, Chippenham.’
‘Chippenham, eh? We don’t have many from there as a rule.’
Miss Lamborne looks a trifle put out, and when the landlady exclaims that she knows Erlestoke well, and has a brother living close to it whom she is mighty fond of, Miss Bridget shoots me a sour glance and pulls Miss Jane’s fingers out of her mouth as if to say it may be late but this is not yet bedtime. In the light of the hallway I note that both have hair the colour of rust, and ghost-white skin to go with it, but Miss Bridget is plainer and heavier than the other, and her face is marred by angry spots.
‘The lad will carry up your boxes. Meanwhile you can take yourselves into dinner.’ The landlady turns to greet another guest.
The rich, fatty smell of roast meat hangs in the air and I recall how long I have been hungry.
‘You must take the floor tonight,’ Miss Bridget informs me, as we hand our boxes to the boy. ‘My sister and I will share the bed, naturally.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Miss,’ says the lad. ‘There’s three paillasses laid out in the garret you be in.’
‘Then I’ll go next the window,’ I say, before Miss Bridget can claim the one furthest from the door. ‘Some grumble about draughts,’ I add cheerfully, ‘not I.’ The elder sister bites her lip but can think of no rejoinder.
‘Still here, ladies? Dinner’s that way,’ the landlady says, indicating, and Miss Bridget forgets her needling at last and follows me to the dining-room. I open the door to find a dozen or more guests seated round the table, while a huge log glows in the hearth and a side of pork burnishes on the turn-spit, along with a shoulder of beef and three or four plump chickens.
A table runs the length of the room, and a small, round-shouldered woman waits upon the company, her face shining from the heat of the fire as she scurries to serve the noisy diners. Adding to the hubbub of voices and clanking tankards are the strains of a fiddle played in a corner by a musician who grimaces, eyes screwed shut, as he saws with his bow, and a piper whose piercing tune has some of the diners tapping their feet and one or two wincing when he hits a high note.
I am curious to see what kind of people call at a coaching-inn, and glad to find I am by no means the humblest customer at the famous West-gate. Seated at the table is a mix of travellers, some well-dressed; one or two in working-clothes; and a family who may be poorer even than me, for the woman nurses a baby while her husband feeds a tribe of little boys with morsels cut from his own plain supper of bread and cheese.
I gaze at the pork with its bronzed and savoury crackling, and my mouth waters.
‘I believe I could eat a whole leg of pork by myself,’ Miss Jane says, as we clamber into our places on the bench. ‘Though I hope supper ain’t too dear,’ she adds, turning her watery blue eyes on her sister in case the harmless remark provokes her.
Fortunately, Miss Bridget is absorbed in looking over the bill of fare, and from her frown and moving lips I suspect she may not be such an able reader as she pretends.
More guests enter, and to my dismay I see Mr Osmund choose a place a short distance from us on the other side of the table where Mr Espinosa is seated.
‘What a difference twenty-four hours can make,’ Miss Bridget says suddenly, putting down the bill with a loud, affected sigh. ‘To think this time tomorrow Jane and I will be dining in the servants’ hall at No. 3, Queen-square, Bristol. I doubt you’ve heard of Queen-square, Miss Amesbury. It is a very fine address—best in all of Bristol. Our master and mistress have a great household with more than two dozen domestics, and a coach and horses besides. I am to be chamber-maid, Jane kitchen-maid. And you, where are you expecting to be this time tomorrow, if I may ask?’
‘I have no situation quite yet,’ I say. ‘I shall be looking for work when I arrive.’
‘Ha, good luck with that.’ She says it as if work is nigh impossible to find. ‘I daresay you know about the hiring-man?’
‘Of course,’ I say airily, though Miss Bridget seems to see through my pretence and continues.
‘He charges a high fee, naturally. But if you are unlucky and have no friend to help you find a good position, it is what you must pay.’
‘Did you have a friend then, Miss Lamborne?’
‘Yes, indeed. My aunt, Mrs Gibbons, put in a word for each of us, and when her mistress heard of all our qualities she said, “Mrs Gibbons, my dear, please send for those nieces of yours before any other lady in Bristol snaps them up.’” At the finish of this speech Miss Bridget gives a little peal of laughter, and God forgive me I should like to snap her up and spit her out too, the stuck-up baggage.
Just then the serving-woman comes to take our orders, and while Miss Bridget makes a lordly show of querying the price of every item Miss Jane asks me in a whisper: ‘Will dinner be more than a shilling each, do you suppose?’
‘I think I will just ask for one slice of meat and a dish of bread and butter.’ I reach under my skirts to feel my purse, reassured by finding it still half-full.
The serving-woman reaches us at last, and when I give my order Miss Bridget nods and says: ‘The same will do for my sister and I, if you please,’ her tone as proud as if her customary fare is venison and sweet sack.
We wait a weary time to be served, but when the woman finally plants down the serving-dishes in front of us, Miss Jane brightens.
‘Shall I say Grace?’ she asks her sister, who glances at the throng and says drily: ‘I believe we could do without Grace this once.’
Unbidden, I hear my little brother Tom lisping: By God’s hand we must be fed, Give us Lord, our daily bread, Amen, but with an effort I push the thought away, and reach for the first victuals I have taken since dawn, saving a cup of beer at dinnertime in Devizes.
None of us wants to chat until our bellies are filled, and I cannot help but be conscious of Mr Osmund, who presently rolls his glass in his hand and fixes his gaze on me.
‘Pay no heed, my dear,’ says the landlady, who has just come into the dining-room and sits down smiling as warmly as if I am her long-lost cousin. She has noticed my discomfort. ‘A gentleman is sure to admire a pretty girl. Do you three ladies mind my joining you?’
‘No, certainly,’ Miss Bridget says, shuffling up quickly as she takes in the landlady’s appearance.
She has changed into a low-cut, pink silk gown with contrasting sleeves of a dull red like faded rose petals, and a cap of crimson satin with lace frills and white ribbons trailing down the back. Her hair is black and done in long, shining curls, and her complexion has not the least brownness but is creamy pale as though she never stood uncovered out of doors.
‘So, ladies, she smiles, ‘you must be vexed to have to break your journey, and yet we in Bath are happy to extend hospitality to those who would otherwise lose the chance to visit our fair city.’
Miss Bridget cuts across me to introduce herself and explain that I have no situation to go to in Bristol. ‘Whereas my sister, Miss Jane Lamborne, and I were lucky enough to be appointed chamber-maid and kitchen-maid to a wealthy merchant in Queen-square. I daresay you have heard of the houses new-built in Queen-square, Ma’am? It was arranged by letter—our aunt who is housekeeper there spoke to her mistress, listing our merits and willingness to work, and it was fixed in no time. Queen-square is the best address in all of Bristol, and our master and mistress have a coach and horses and a country mansion besides.’
I think Miss Bridget fancies herself lady of the house instead of the wench who will be emptying the piss-pots, but I hide this thought under lowered eyelashes. The pink-gowned lady gives my arm a kindly pat, and I notice her hands are smooth and ivory-pale as her face, with well-shaped nails and a gemstone on the middle finger of each: a brilliant for the left, on the right a garnet. And her ears are decked too, with pearl drop earrings, a cluster of tiny garnets set above the pearls.
‘Don’t you fret, Miss—?’
‘Amesbury.’
‘How d’ye do, Miss Amesbury. Mrs Buckley, Ma Buckley to my friends.’ The landlord glides over, bowing low and winking as he sets a dish in front of her. ‘Thank you, Jack.’ She spreads her napkin on her lap and contemplates her dinner with satisfaction before picking up her knife. Popping a morsel in her mouth she continues. ‘Miss Amesbury, be reassured. Bristol is thriving; every week young people travel in from the countryside, and few go home unless for a holiday once in a while. Act obliging, smile nicely when spoken to; in no time you will be on your way to earning three or four pounds per annum. Many a kind mistress gives her maids petticoats and stockings, and you will be all found, two meals a day and a weekly allowance of tea and sugar if your master trades with the Indies.’ She leans towards Miss Bridget. ‘Are those your terms?’
Miss Bridget blinks. ‘Thereabouts.’
‘See?’ Mrs Buckley turns and looks at me confidingly, one be-ringed finger stroking the side of her nose. I catch a scent of rose-water, and a less welcome hint of gravy on her breath. ‘Now then, ladies. I daresay you won’t have heard of the amazing bath-house that lies a stone’s throw from where we sit?’
‘I’ve heard of the bath, ma’am,’ I say eagerly, ‘my mother’s cousin spoke of it when I lived with her in Salisbury last year. I believe it’s very fine.’
I also believe it to be a place where ladies bathe and men go to ogle, but my companion looks too respectable to speak of a place where lewdness is order of the day, and my answer pleases her for she beams and beckons the tapster to refill our mugs with beer, pressing a crown into his hand before any of us can protest. I remind myself to make sure she does not insist on treating us to dinner when the time comes for the reckoning.
‘The bath is splendid,’ Mrs Buckley declares. ‘It offers many benefits both for bathers and those who prefer to drink the waters. It’s highly efficacious for those with pimples and other blemishes: you, Miss Lamborne, with your prodigious freckles would find the waters astonishing useful.’ Miss Bridget flushes, and Mrs Buckley sweeps on. ‘Patients suffering from gout and dropsy have been known to leave Bath with their health restored. As for the poor creatures undergoing the mercury treatment …’ The Lamborne sisters are wide-eyed, and Mrs Buckley shakes her head. ‘Enough of such talk. Bristol may be a famous port, but Bath outdoes it for elegant amenities. The Roman Emperor Augustus was the first to extol Bath in his writings, you know. He brought Queen Cleopatra here to cure her of the green-sickness. And our own noble Queen Anne visited this year, and was treated to a musical extravagance finer than any London might provide. Since her highness, more and more persons of wealth and importance flock to the waters. Look around you.’
She glances down the table where more diners have arrived. A lady in a blue embroidered gown sits next to Mr Osmund, hanging on his word. Just as I look across, he leans over and makes some remark to Mr Espinosa that causes the lady in blue to rock with laughter and deliver a feigning blow to Mr Osmund’s sleeve.
Unhappiness and indignation are written on Mr Espinosa’s face, but the table is crowded and he is unable to escape his persecutor. Instead he turns to face the other way, folding and unfolding his napkin by way of distraction. I am conscious I am the original cause of bad feeling between these gentlemen, though when Mr Espinosa catches my eye he gives a nod as if to say he bears me no ill will.
‘Your friend from the stagecoach, Miss Amesbury,’ Miss Bridget says slyly, ‘you must be sorry to have him seated so far away.’
I ignore this sally, and help myself to more bread and butter. A moment later the serving-maid brings out a large steaming platter of roast pork and places it in front of Mr Osmund and his pretty companion. The meat is neatly carved and appetising, and I am surprised to see Mr Espinosa veer away in disgust as Mr Osmund seizes the dish and thrusts it in front of him with a yelp of laughter. Mr Espinosa’s face turns scarlet while with a roar the fat fellow heaps his own plate with meat, and proceeds to tuck in.
‘Did you see that?’ I ask Mrs Buckley. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘Bless you, you innocent.’ She pinches my cheek. ‘Jews do not eat pork. They consider it unclean, you know.’
Looking at Mr Espinosa I see she is right, for though he has turned to look the other way he holds a handkerchief over his mouth.
‘Do they eat beef, Jews?’
‘Of course. I expect the maid will bring him supper presently.’
But some time later Mr Espinosa is still waiting, and from the careless way the maid splashes his jacket with gravy as she serves another guest, I see she is content to let him go hungry while the rest of us eat. I know I may be noticed by my fellow diners, but after helping Miss Lamborne and Miss Jane to another slice of bread and butter I rise and carry the dish to the other side of the table and, wordless, present what is left to Mr Espinosa. The startled faces around me are easy to ignore, and the gentleman smiles gratefully and helps himself to bread.
‘You’re most considerate, Miss Amesbury.’
‘Not in the least, Sir. Short commons if one diner waits while the rest are nearly done.’ Overhearing my remark, the serving-maid tosses her head, but I care not. I have eaten my fill, and though this is said to be the best inn in Bath, I did not find the pork as tasty as it looked, nor the butter as fresh as it should be. The serving-maid may think herself better than I, but on my return to my place I see Mr Osmund pinch her backside as she takes his empty plate, and she forces a smile when she would plainly like to spit in his drink.
Mrs Buckley has been nodding and smiling as Miss Bridget runs on, talking of fourteen bedrooms and marble floors. She will enjoy scrubbing those floors on bended knees, and scraping out fourteen grates each winter’s morning.
‘Yes, granted you will find Bristol very prosperous,’ Mrs Buckley says, tapping her fingers to the melody from the corner of the room. ‘Sugar, they say, is sweeter than gold. Yet you know, my dears, Bath trumps all for pleasure: titled folk and gentry come here to enjoy every manner of entertainments. Opportunities for advancement spring up each week—why, if I were a young lady intent on service, I might choose Bath over Bristol, you know.’
While she speaks, Mr Osmund kisses and fondles the hand of the lady in blue, and I wish I could drag my eyes away from them.
‘Why don’t she chide him? He’s so ugly,’ I whisper.
Mrs Buckley nudges me with her elbow. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, dear. But perhaps you would rather escape such sights now dinner is over? Don’t be shy, I’m known for taking young visitors under my wing. I make it my business to provide every ease and comfort during their stay. What if I were to chaperone you three ladies to see the famous baths when I have paid our good host?’
Miss Bridget shifts uneasily. ‘We promised Father we’d be abed by nine o’clock.’
‘Well now, I expect your good father is a little out-dated in his understanding of town hours. In Bath we have scarcely begun by nine. Don’t deny me the pleasure of treating three such mannerly young people.’ She pats the purse hanging from her waist. ‘As for the baths, you’ll relish telling friends at home that you have seen with your own eyes the place that makes our city famous far and wide. I should be honoured to pay the small admission fee on your behalf. Nothing delights Ma Buckley quite so much as seeing the excitement on a young girl’s face as she makes her first entrance to our grand attraction.’
Mrs Buckley is hard on herself, for no one would consider her old. I thought we were about to set off but the tapster hurries to her, beckoning once more, and she has him fill our mugs to the brim a third time, with the remark, ‘My treat, dears. Chance to be merry before you take up your employ tomorrow. Your good health.’
She takes only a sip of her own drink before setting it down, perhaps regarding herself as too ‘old’ to risk a sore head come morning. But Miss Bridget lifts her mug and downs the contents in a couple of swallows, and there is a wobble in her step when she stands up. The lady waves us back while she pays the landlord, and none of us has courage to protest. How could we, when she is so kind and cheerful, even picking up a napkin and dabbing the corners of Miss Jane’s mouth?
‘There now,’ she says, surveying her charge. ‘Can’t have you seen outside with grease stains on your chin.’
Miss Lamborne is prompted to say: ‘My sister always was a careless eater.’
‘But a very pretty one,’ the lady responds gallantly, and Miss Jane simpers, not in the least offended.