Chapter Twenty
Wherein our heroine returns to Bath in the nick of time and is reunited with an old friend, though spies abound in an enemy camp; Lady Dalrymple enjoys increasingly restored health, but a morning’s excursion is marred by a rumormonger.
LADY DALRYMPLE’S BEDCHAMBER was a somber sight. Good God . . . how long have I been gone?
C.J. elbowed past the dowager’s visitors in a highly unseemly fashion for a gently bred young lady. The countess, pale and weak, lay against a sea of white linen, her eyes half closed. But upon seeing C.J. again, she found a renewed energy. “Come here, Niece,” she beckoned.
C.J. approached the bedside and gave her “aunt” a warm hug. How much more frail the countess had become; her ladyship’s previously plump form seemed little more than a sagging sack that hung about her feeble bones. In her infirmity, her ladyship was beginning to show the signs of her true age. “I promise I will not leave this room until you are cured,” she assured her benefactress.
“Nonsense,” retorted Lady Dalrymple, her voice as hoarse as a whisper. “You have dances and parties to attend—walks—and shopping with that delightful Miss Austen. Never mind an old lady like me. Life is for the living. Besides,” she added, gesturing to a slender figure shyly hanging back amid the shadows, “Mary can stay right at my elbow. I have full confidence in her nursing abilities.”
Mary? Mary Sykes?
Lady Wickham’s former scullery maid stepped forward into the candlelight. In livery that properly fit her narrow frame, and with clean and shining dark hair peeking out from under her white mobcap, she was not at all an unattractive girl. With no thought of censoring her behavior, C.J. rushed forward to greet her. For a moment, they held each other like long-separated siblings, their faces streaming with tears.
“I’ve tried to do my best by ’er ladyship,” Mary sniffled apologetically, focusing her attention on the palsied medic who was pacing the room.
Dr. Squiffers appeared self-conscious when C.J. cornered him. “At your insistence, Miss Welles, I have not bled her ladyship,” he assured her.
She shot him a look of warning. “You had best be telling me the truth or you have only begun to taste my displeasure.”
Suddenly, C.J. realized that two more pairs of eyes had been upon her since she’d entered her aunt’s room. Lady Oliver sat by the other side of the bed like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell. If she had indicated her disapproval when Miss Welles embraced the new serving girl, C.J. never heard it. Lady Oliver’s nephew had positioned himself by the window, where he hung back, alternately twisting his signet ring and anxiously chewing on his thumbnail in a most ungentlemanly fashion.
C.J. had not seen him since the first and only time they had made love.
“I was watching for you, Miss Welles,” he admitted as he drew C.J. into his arms. Not even Lady Oliver could object to such compassion during a time of crisis. His warmth and the security of his embrace were a godsend.
“What is Dr. Squiffers doing here?” C.J. whispered suspiciously.
“What he perceives to be his duty, I imagine.”
“I expressly forbade his presence.” She noticed someone skulking in a corner of the bedchamber trying to appear invisible. Saunders. Only the mistrustful lady’s maid could have been responsible for Squiffers’s return.
“Have no fear,” Darlington soothed. “He has done nothing but wring his hands and wear out the carpet with his steady tread.”
“I should like everyone to leave the room,” C.J. requested of the earl. Her wish became his effectively issued command, and with minimal fuss the countess’s visitors were hastily ushered from the bedchamber.
C.J. filled a tumbler with cool water from the ewer by the bedside table. Then she opened the carpetbag, removed the blue velvet spencer that had protected the bag’s important contents from discovery, and drew out the various envelopes of pills, placing them on the table by the bed. She had no way of knowing that Saunders had sent Mary down to the kitchen on some pretext and was herself squinting a jaundiced eye through the keyhole. Lady Oliver, refusing to wait in a corridor like a commoner, suggested that Dr. Squiffers join her in the parlor for a glass of her hostess’s finest ruby port, declaring, “Neither time nor wine should go to waste.”
C.J. extracted a nitroglycerin tablet, electing to give the countess a low dosage of the beta-blocker. “Aunt, I am going to make a highly irregular request of you: I pray you not to ask me what apothecary provided this remedy, nor how I came by it.”
Lady Dalrymple looked at her “niece,” her eyes as wide and trusting as a small child’s. She regarded the colorful object in C.J.’s hand. “It looks quite like a pastille,” she said, managing a laugh. “You truly believe that this magical pill will cure me?”
“If you do not take it, I cannot promise that you will regain any greater degree of health than you enjoy at present,” C.J. counseled gravely.
“Well then,” the countess sighed dubiously, “if following your regimen will enable me to feast at your wedding breakfast,” she continued slyly, “I see no other alternative. Hand me the glass, Cassandra.”
There was a discreet knock at the door. C.J. hid the envelopes, then admitted Mary, who slipped into the room with a cup of tea.
“For ’er ladyship.”
“Thank you, Mary. But you did not have to make tea at this late hour.”
“But I did,” the serving girl corrected. “Saunders told me ’er ladyship required it. And not to dawdle, or I’d get what for, for sure.” She placed the steaming cup of fragrant chamomile tea on the table by Lady Dalrymple’s bedside.
Saunders again.
“Not to dawdle?” C.J. was appalled. “Mary, I can only surmise by your presence here that you no longer work for Lady Wickham. And you certainly are not to take orders from Saunders. She is out of her part if she is giving you instructions, and I assure you, my aunt will hear of it. And Mary? No one in this house gives anyone ‘what for’; do you understand?”
“But I arrived just yesterday morning. And Saunders has been in ’er ladyship’s employ ever so much longer than I have,” protested the new girl in her own defense. “’Sides, she’s a proper maid, and I’m just lucky to have a situation at all.”
C.J. gently drew Mary aside. “You sweet, trusting girl. We do not threaten anyone with eviction or termination here. We are the ones who are lucky to have you in service. Remember that, Mary. Mind you, I have no proof in any way,” she whispered to the former scullery. “It’s merely a feeling that I have in here,” she continued, her hand to her heart. “I do not trust Saunders. Not that she means my aunt any harm, but I believe we must keep a watchful eye on her . . . as a mother bird does her young.”
“Gentlelike?” Mary asked.
C.J. smiled for the first time since her return. The girl merely needed a bit of oil on the rusty gears of her untested mind. She had suffered others’ low opinions of her for so long that she believed herself stupid and incompetent. Once the subject was raised, Mary easily grasped the concept of affecting a concerned vigilance without raising suspicion.
“I cannot express enough gratitude to you, Aunt Euphoria, for releasing Mary from Lady Wickham’s employ. You will certainly have no cause to regret it, for she is good-natured, courageous, and most devoted. However did you manage it?”
“Will you think any less of me, Niece, if I confess I had nothing to do with the matter?”
“But . . . ?” C.J. was baffled. “If you did not convince Lady Wickham to release Mary, then . . . ?” Silence. Clearly, the countess was not willing to divulge the name of the hero or heroine responsible for Mary’s arrival in the Royal Crescent. It was the subject herself who revealed the Samaritan’s identity when she shyly mumbled a few words about his most handsome and generous lordship.
“Percy!” whispered C.J. Evidently, he had been paying considerable attention to her tirade that rainy afternoon in his salon. Was the man who had rescued the little maid from an aristocratic employer who routinely beat her the very same Darlington who had so vociferously defended the efficacy and inviolability of the English class system? She bade Mary fetch the earl and bring him to Lady Dalrymple’s bedchamber.
“How can I properly express the enormity of our gratitude?” C.J. said softly. “Your lordship has done all of us the greatest kindness.” She tugged lightly at his sleeve to draw him nearer. “What did you do? Pay the old bat off?” she whispered, curious about the possibility of some sort of sensational form of rescue, through bribery, extortion, or equally devious means.
“Miss Welles, if you and your aunt are pleased that Mary Sykes has come to reside under Lady Dalrymple’s roof and will now be in her employ, that is all the thanks I require. Please forgive my unwillingness to discuss the matter any further.” Miss Welles had no need to ever learn that he had paid the greedy old gimp handsomely with a hundred pounds in bank notes, the loss of which did much to further increase his debts on his already overmortgaged estate.
“VERY RESOURCEFUL, SAUNDERS. Very resourceful,” Lady Oliver praised, pressing a golden guinea into the servant’s eager hand. Suspiciously eyeing her benefactress, Saunders bit the coin before it disappeared into her apron with the speed of a sleight-of-hand trick. Saunders narrowed her small gray eyes in an expression of tacit thanks, with the complete understanding that there might be more guineas that would be freely parted with upon the exchange of such similarly valuable intelligence. She didn’t worry about the suspicion that might arise from trying to spend such a large denomination. Saunders had no use for feminine fripperies. Enough of Lady Oliver’s guineas, and she could kiss servitude good-bye.
Her ladyship pursed her lips thoughtfully. “How clever of you to keep a small pencil and a scrap of paper hard by so that you may remember such things as they occur. You have been most accommodating, Saunders. And quite observant.” She knocked on the bedchamber door. “I shall pay my respects to your mistress and collect my nephew. Clearly, his infatuation is far worse than even I had suspected. But,” she sighed, “something will be done about it, and if I have any say in the matter, the sooner, the better.”
“I AM WELL ENOUGH to walk on my own!” Lady Dalrymple announced days later, dismissing her chair carrier just outside the Pump Room. C.J. scrambled to keep up with her aunt’s morning constitutionals. To ensure Lady Dalrymple’s continued recovery, C.J. had confided in Mary, who was now the only one of the household staff on whom C.J. could rely to keep her counsel regarding the dutiful dispensary of her ladyship’s “magic pills.”
The countess had a renewed interest in life, following C.J.’s directives, not only with regard to the strange little tablets but also to the judicious taking of regular but moderate forms of exercise, which were chiefly borne out in daily visits to the Pump Room, and the taking of the waters both internally and externally, followed by extravagant shopping expeditions.
C.J. made certain that her ladyship drank her prescribed three glasses of water every day; and she herself was finally growing accustomed to the sulfuric odor and taste of the beneficial waters pumped directly into the elegant social hall from the source below and served warm to the patrons. It was quite an acquired taste for the modern palate.
When the crowd was thin, C.J. had the opportunity to admire the atmosphere of the room itself, finding the pale blue, cream, and gold interior restful and pleasing to the eye. But from late morning through the afternoon, the room bustled with the well-heeled ton of Bath, who came to the Pump Room every day to see the same circles of friends and cadres of enemies, and to catch up on the latest social scandals—all in the name of healthful pursuit. The quotidian excursions also provided the opportunity for couples to engage in flirtations under the protective noses of the young ladies’ chaperones.
The Miss Fairfaxes made excursions to the Pump Room an integral part of their daily routine, with their mother in tow clucking all the while like a hen about Lady So-and-So or Countess Whatnot as though they were intimates. In fact, Mrs. Fairfax appeared to be a repository for gossip, though where she got her intelligence, no one quite knew. Rumors abounded that the woman used the discretionary allowance provided to her by her gentle and amiable husband to cross the palms of several well-situated servants employed by the most influential members of society.
The seventeen-year-old Miss Susanne invariably appeared mortified by her mother’s conduct, remarking once to C.J. how unfair it seemed that the behavior of her mother—and her elder sister as well, who took too much after the Fairfax matriarch by vociferously flaunting her ignorance in public gatherings—should reflect upon her father and herself, who surely didn’t merit such censure.
Mrs. Fairfax waved to C.J. and Lady Dalrymple, indicating that she and her brood had intentions of joining the countess’s party.
“Are you quite up to her company this afternoon, Aunt?” C.J. asked solicitously.
“Heavens!” Lady Dalrymple responded. “The way the woman taxes one’s nerves on occasion is a great stimulation to my constitution. Without a proper argument now and again, I feel my brain becoming addled from lack of use. You must look upon it as sport, child. And despite the occasional vulgarity of her manner, one must remember that she is a well-intentioned woman and a devoted mother.”
The Miss Fairfaxes were in the midst of an animated discussion of a highly inappropriate nature for public consumption—and of which their mother most emphatically disapproved—when their party approached C.J. and the countess.
“Well, it is a good thing Lord Digby apparently shares my sentiment on the ill effects of education on young women,” the matron said, drawing herself up.
“Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Fairfax?” asked C.J., already feeling a lump rise in her throat at the mention of Lord Digby.
“Oh, goodness, I thought everyone had heard the news, especially you, Lady Dalrymple, as you are so thick with Lady Oliver.”
This time it was the countess who raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Augusta Oliver, whatever her faults, does not traffic in idle gossip,” Lady Dalrymple replied smoothly, masking an anxiety that rivaled her “niece’s.”
“Well,” burbled Mrs. Fairfax, “I have it on the best authority that Lord Darlington’s estate is overmortgaged and in absolute ruins, and the only way that Delamere can possibly be salvaged is through a highly advantageous match between his lordship and an eligible young heiress. By all accounts, Lady Oliver is quite settled on her godchild, Charlotte Digby.”
C.J. felt her heart plummet to the marble floor and shatter at her feet. “But they barely know one another!”
“Quite true. Quite true,” Mrs. Fairfax acknowledged, oblivious to Miss Welles’s consternation. The matron was beside herself with pleasure at being able to provide intelligence to her social betters. “The Digbys are from Dorsetshire. Their son, Lady Charlotte’s elder brother, is Henry Digby, better known as the Silver Captain for the store of gold coins he seized from the Spanish treasure ship Santa Brigada in 1799.”
“Then why is he called the Silver Captain if he recovered gold coins?” asked the astute Miss Susanne, not one to readily believe her mother’s tales.
“Because, my pet, the Royal Navy gave him a share of forty thousand pounds sterling.”
Quickly doing the math, C.J. multiplied the figure by a factor of fifty to achieve a rough idea of the sum in third-millennium American dollars. Two million. She made the error of whistling in most unladylike amazement and tried to appear as though the sound had been produced by someone else.
“The late Robert Digby, Henry and Charlotte’s uncle, owned Minterne, in Dorset, which he purchased from the Churchill family in 1768. In his will, he left the estate to his considerably younger brother, the present Lord Digby. Henry is quite devoted to his sister and has no reservations about adding to Lady Charlotte’s dowry portion with some of his own funds.” A beaming Mrs. Fairfax congratulated herself on her awareness of such vitally important matters.
Lady Dalrymple and her “niece” exchanged concerned glances. C.J. found no words with which to reply, stunned to her very core by Mrs. Fairfax’s revelation. Could it possibly be true—that Lady Oliver was brokering a match between her nephew and her godchild? And assuming there was any truth to the rumors being spread by the Fairfax matron, was Darlington aware of his aunt’s machinations?
And if his lordship had full knowledge of Lady Oliver’s matchmaking, why had he entered into an understanding with C.J.? They had entered into an understanding, hadn’t they? Their afternoon of lovemaking had been the most passionate, tender, trusting, and truly beautiful experience she had ever had. And not only had he willingly given her a lock of his hair, but he had made her a gift of the locket in which to protect the keepsake—a pendant that had belonged to his own mother. After such an intimate gesture, C.J. had every reason to believe herself secure in the earl’s affections. Surely, she had never been given cause to doubt them. C.J. blinked away tears and turned away from the little party lest her emotions be detected, for in such a case they were sure to become a topic for immediate dissection.
“I would not be so hasty to share that which you are not entirely sure of, madam,” Lady Dalrymple replied somewhat tensely. She too would feel like a dupe if rumors of an impending betrothal between Lady Charlotte Digby and Lord Darlington were genuine and undistorted.
Mrs. Fairfax raised herself to her full height of approximately five feet one and gripped each of her daughters by the wrist. She did not like to have her veracity doubted. “We have much to do today and precious little time remaining to dawdle. Come, girls. Your ladyship, it is a great pleasure to see you in such restored health.” She nodded civilly to C.J. “Good day to you, Miss Welles.”
Miss Fairfax trotted dutifully beside her mother, although C.J. did not fail to miss the touch of the young blonde’s fan to her lips as they passed Captain Keats, who honored his inamorata with a subtle inclination of his head and the trace of a smile. Miss Susanne turned back to regard C.J. with a look of sympathetic concern as her mother towed her away.
“Heavens, Cassandra!” Lady Dalrymple looked as though she were about to bite off a corner of her silk fan.
“How could Mrs. Fairfax be telling the truth? Forgive me if I misconstrued,” C.J. began under her breath, conscious of her use of understatement, “but I was under every apprehension that it was Lord Darlington and I who had entered into an understanding.”
Good God! She had made love with the man, and were word to get out, she would be cast out of society, inasmuch as she was a part of it to begin with. The swift downfall of Lady Rose was a testament to the narrow view taken of such behavior. In any event, the repercussions would severely affect her benefactress. Lady Dalrymple had taken enormous risks with her own reputation by restyling a former lady’s companion—as far as she knew—as a titled relation and member of the aristocracy.
A familiar presence, sporting a new bonnet of white muslin, came into view. “Bath is getting so very empty that I am not afraid of doing too little.”
“Ah, Miss Austen.” The countess greeted their visitor with a warm cordiality that showed nothing of the effects of Mrs. Fairfax’s news. “Always a wit.”
Jane bestowed a kiss on Lady Dalrymple’s cheek. “Every neighborhood should have a great lady,” she advised C.J. with a wink.
“My aunt so cleverly got the advantage over Mrs. Fairfax just now. Perhaps you saw her departing in haste with her two daughters bringing up the rear like ducklings,” C.J. told Jane.
Lady Dalrymple crooked a plump finger at Miss Austen, beckoning her closer. “Apart from her usual vociferous display of her own ignorance as regards the education of women, the matron has just boldly imparted a piece of gossip that concerns your cousin, Lord Darlington. I daresay, it was news to my ears.”
Jane screwed up her face in disgust as she regarded the retreating figure of the vulgar Mrs. Fairfax. “She will never be easy ’til she has exposed herself in some public place,” she remarked dryly, sending C.J. into a fit of much-needed laughter under the circumstances.
“How remarkably perceptive you are, Miss Austen,” C.J. gasped, swallowing hard to avoid the hiccups.
“I must say I challenged the veracity of her tale, following which she left, much insulted, in high dudgeon. I hope the foolish woman’s intelligence is false as a mock turtle soup. Oh, my heart,” Lady Dalrymple said, placing her hand upon her bosom. C.J. was concerned that Mrs. Fairfax’s unwelcome news might cause an undue setback in her “aunt’s” condition. She gave her protectress a look of concern, but the countess dismissed her anxiety with a forced smile and a wave of her hand. “Perhaps if we had flattered her ability to acquire such gossip with acuity, rather than doubted her perspicaciousness, she would have departed a happier woman, though I daresay she did not deserve any encomium.”
“That woman is fool indeed, who while insulted by accusation, can be worked on by compliments,” Miss Austen observed.
“My legs grow heavy,” Lady Dalrymple announced. “I had promised Cassandra a stroll along Milsom Street this morning, but I fear I am too fatigued to honor it.” C.J. immediately arranged for a chair and saw to it that her “aunt” would be brought home right away.
Jane allowed that she possessed an hour or two of leisure, although her family had learned from an advertisement in the Bath Chronicle that a suitable house just opposite Sydney Gardens might be available, and she was eager to inspect it. She was quite pleased at the prospect of having such a restful and verdant spot so close to their rooms.
C.J. pressed her hand into Jane’s. “Your company gives me such pleasure,” she beamed. Then, drawing her friend closer, she whispered, “Please spare me a moment or two of your time. I have something very particular to discuss with you, and it cannot wait.”