When their dance was over, Mr Bateman led her into the adjoining room where supper was being served. He poured her a glass of hot negus, and pressed some white soup upon her. Even though she was not hungry, Isabel supped her soup, concerned that the negus, which contained wine, would go straight to her head. She already felt intoxicated enough after that waltz with him…
She finished her light meal, and then Mr Bateman led her away to a sofa in the corner of the room. When she was seated, he took his place beside her, and said: “Now, my dear. I want to know why Mr Wetherby frightens you so.”
“He is a repugnant man.”
“Has he threatened you in any way?”
Isabel was silent for a few moments. How much should she tell him? “He – he accosted me in the library at Chernock Hall. Fortunately, Lord Fenmore walked in and put a stop to it, but it was a very unpleasant experience.”
“Damn it, Isabel!” His jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
Isabel’s eyes widened. “But, sir! We were barely acquainted then. I did not wish to speak to anyone about it. It was a humiliating incident.”
“I trust that if anything of a similar nature occurs again you will tell me.” His expression was austere.
Isabel looked at him doubtfully. He was asking for privileges that only a fiancé or a husband should by rights claim, but she hesitated to point that out.
“You say he has been plaguing you since your arrival in London?”
“He – he made me an offer of marriage last week, which I refused in no uncertain terms. What frightens me about him is that he believes my refusal to entertain his suit is due to some sort of deep game I am playing. At first I thought him to be merely annoyingly persistent, but now I’ve realised he is incapable of believing anything he doesn’t wish to believe. He is delusional. He talks about our eventual marriage as if it is a given.”
His mouth set in grim lines. “He cannot harm you, my dear. There is no need to be afraid of him.”
“I know that – but it is dreadful to feel hounded by him. Fortunately, he leaves for Bristol on Christmas Eve so I need not suffer his presence in London for much longer.”
He looked at her with an arrested expression in his eyes. “Christmas Eve, you say?”
“Indeed – he told me so while we were waltzing.”
“I see.” He changed the subject then, and started telling her an amusing story about a mutual acquaintance. Isabel responded suitably to his comments but she received the impression he was miles away. And, indeed, a short while later he escorted her back to her mother, and left the ball.
* * *
“Did you enjoy waltzing with Mr Bateman last night?” her mother asked the next morning, raising her delicate brows.
They sat in the drawing room, working on their embroidery, and the question took Isabel by surprise. Cousin Maria was resting in her bedchamber, having declared the previous evening that she was feeling a little the worse for wear after the fevered activity of the past few weeks. She had decided, therefore, to spend the day quietly in bed so she would not be too fatigued for the upcoming Christmas festivities.
This was, consequently, the first time Isabel had found herself alone with her mother since Cousin Maria’s arrival in London. Looking at her parent’s determinedly innocent expression, she sighed. It was clear she was in the mood for a comfortable cose…
“Mr Bateman is a very accomplished dancer,” Isabel said in a neutral tone, before returning her attention to her embroidery.
“Mmmm,” her mother said. “Did I tell you that George has invited Mr Bateman and Lady Kildaren to share our Christmas dinner with us?”
“You failed to mention that,” Isabel said warily.
Her mother sighed. “I have the most shocking memory.”
Isabel regarded her mother with a smouldering eye, but said nothing. When her mother was in this kind of mood, it was best to tread lightly. She was plotting mischief of some kind – of that Isabel was convinced.
“I wonder if Cousin Maria will be well enough to attend church on Christmas morning?” her mother continued.
“I hope you and George will excuse me from attending the church service at St. George’s.” Isabel unpicked a section of her work which she had somehow mangled. “I plan to attend the Christmas morning service at Wesley’s Chapel.”
“Isabel Jane!” her mother said, dropping her embroidery onto her lap. “You cannot be thinking clearly.”
“I am thinking perfectly clearly, Mama.” Isabel met her mother’s gaze squarely. “I have been meaning to visit Wesley’s Chapel ever since we arrived in London. It would be wonderful to attend the Christmas service in the church John Wesley founded.”
“Members of the nobility do no frequent such lowly churches, my dear. It is not at all the thing.”
“But, Mama! You know I follow the Methodist teachings. Besides, the Countess of Huntingdon was a Methodist and she founded chapels all over England.”
“That is all very well, my love. But even John Wesley insisted that Methodists regularly attended their local parish church as well as Methodist meetings.”
The door opened at that moment, and Mr Bateman stood framed in the doorway. Isabel and her mother swivelled their heads in his direction as he advanced into the room. “I am so pleased to see you, dear sir! I need you to speak some sense to my daughter. She wants to attend the Christmas service at Wesley’s Chapel on Christmas morning.”
“I shall take Peter along as an escort, Mama, and I shall dress in my gardening dress and wear my plainest bonnet so I will appear incognito. I do not foresee a problem.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Mr Bateman said politely. He turned towards Isabel. “You are a Methodist, Lady Axbridge?”
“I am,” she said, bowing her head. “Please be seated, Mr Bateman.”
He sat in the armchair beside her. “One of my particular friends in Boston was a Methodist minister. Would you like me to accompany you to church, my lady? We can take a hackney so that we will not draw too much attention to ourselves.”
Isabel gazed at him in surprise. “That would be delightful, Mr Bateman, and it will put my mother’s mind at rest. Mama?”
“Of course, my dear. It is the ideal solution, although I still think you will seem very out of place there.”
Her mother looked from Isabel to Mr Bateman, before picking up her embroidery once again. A short while later, she rose. “I need to attend to a household matter. If you will excuse me…”
She hurried from the room, and Isabel gave Mr Bateman a shy smile, before returning her attention to her embroidery. When he made no attempt at conversation, she cleared her throat. “You mentioned Boston, Mr Bateman – I assume this is the Boston in Massachusetts rather than the Boston in Lincolnshire?”
“Indeed, I lived in New England for many years.”
“Is this where you learned how to cook?”
He nodded. “I worked as an under-cook for a Massachusetts politician, before finding employment as a cook in a wealthy merchant’s house.”
“Mama informed me that you and George became partners in the shipping industry?”
He leant back in his chair, and studied her for a moment. “We invested in saw-mills, transported lumber, and built and financed ships. It seems another world now.”
“This Methodist minister you mentioned… you attended his church in Boston?”
“I did, although he was involved in various missions and was away for long periods of time. He was particularly opposed to slavery, and George and I supported his work.”
Isabel’s eyes widened. “Why do you paint yourself so black, Mr Bateman? You are, indeed, a good man.”
“A good man? A good man?” He laughed harshly, and the sound was so alien to his usual light-hearted demeanour that she put her embroidery to one side, and leaned forward, observing him closely.
“Don’t imagine me a saint, Lady Axbridge,” he said bitterly.
Isabel clasped her hands together, but held her peace. When he looked at her, it was if he did not see her. Instead he seemed to be trapped in his own private torment.
Isabel stretch out a hand towards him. “What is it, sir? What troubles you so?”
He ignored her outstretched hand. “You think so well of me, madam. You will not do so once you know.”
“Know what?” Isabel asked, her brows drawn together.
He leant forward, his mouth set in a straight line. “My Methodist friend – his name was Benjamin Smith – returned from a mission to Jamaica and informed George and me that he believed he had seen one of our ships being used illegally to transport slaves. He begged us to travel to Jamaica to investigate whether one of the merchants we had a contract with was transforming our ships into slaving vessels.
“And so we travelled there.” He frowned. “When we arrived, we didn’t have far to look. An illegal slave ship had been impounded by a British Naval squadron and was languishing in the harbour. We recognised it immediately as one of ours, and so we boarded…” He put his head in his hands. “The stench… that’s what I recall most vividly. The sick and the dying chained together… it was a living hell.”
He rose and began to pace the room. “It didn’t end there. We visited a couple of plantations to see the conditions the slaves lived in. They were treated like animals. It was barbaric, and yet the plantation managers were so hardened in their attitudes that they could see nothing wrong in treating their fellow human beings in such a cruel manner. When we returned to New England, George and I could not stomach working in an industry so closely connected to the illegal slave trade. We sold our various enterprises, and returned to England.”
Isabel was silent for a long moment. “You could not know that your client was transforming your ships into slaving vessels, Mr Bateman. You cannot blame yourself.”
“Can I not?” His mouth twisted. “I should have investigated each client more carefully. I was aware there were unscrupulous men who were transforming cargo ships into slave vessels after the slave trade became illegal. I should have taken more care before accepting a new client.”
“You are not responsible for the actions of other people, Mr Bateman. Only your own. What matters is that you acted upon the information when it was presented to you, and now George is campaigning to end slavery, and you…”
“And I? What am I doing, Lady Axbridge?”
“You assisted Mary,” she finished, a trifle lamely.
A wry smile played about his lips. “You are disappointed that I am not more involved in the campaign to end slavery, are you not?”
Isabel shrugged. “No – not disappointed precisely. But if I were a man…”
“I, for one, would be vastly disappointed.” A sudden smile lightened his face.
Isabel studied him. The tension which had held him in its grip had lifted. His confidences at an end, he had reverted to his usual debonair-man-of-the-town manner. But now she knew it concealed a man of much greater depth than he allowed the world to see. And although he was not an activist like George, it was reassuring to know he cared. Perhaps, at some later point, he would become more involved in making a change in the world. For now, she was simply grateful that he had allowed her into his private world.