22 The Delights Of Bath

It was habit that took Bea to the schoolroom that morning. Her Latin primer would still be there, sitting unopened on the table, calling to her but untouchable. If only she dared… but she could not disobey Mama. It was almost the first lesson her stepmother had taught her, all those years ago, even before the struggle with the accent, the deportment lessons, the expensive masters to teach her music, singing, dancing, painting.

"Whatever else you do, Beatrice," she had said, "if you always do as you are told — precisely as I tell you — then you cannot go wrong. Obedience is the golden rule, do you understand?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Good girl. We shall make a lady of you yet, and then you will be able to marry a man of high rank and the world will be at your feet. But it will only happen if you do as you are told. Disobedience is the greatest sin there is."

And Bea had been very obedient and done as she was told, and Walter had dropped into her lap like a ripe plum, just as Mama had predicted. But now there was no plum and no replacement on the horizon, either, and not even obedience could wash away the stain of her unknown father. Obedience had failed her, ultimately, but still she could not break the golden rule. The Latin primer would sit, unopened, in front of her, although she could not quite bring herself to put it back on the shelf.

She would write to Aunt Betty, she decided, and tell her all about the tournament and the gentlemen she had danced with last night. Her aunt would enjoy that, and the letter would be passed around all their former friends and neighbours, so that they could read, wide-eyed, about the duke and duchess, the marquess who would be a duke one day, and all the other lords. Just as Papa's friends at the fencing club would enjoy hearing about so many great men, so would Aunt Betty and her friends.

Perhaps she would write to Winnie Strong, too, who had returned from London without her suitor and was firmly back on the shelf again. A letter might cheer her up.

With her writing case in hand, she entered the schoolroom, to find it filled with gentlemen, shuffling their feet awkwardly and greeting her with diffidence, instead of their usual casual friendliness.

"This is… a surprise," she said, with some feeling. "What brings you all here at this hour? It is usually only Bertram."

More foot shuffling. Even Bertram could not quite look her in the eye.

"Whatever is the matter?" she said.

Lord Brockscombe tugged at his neck cloth. "We… wanted to talk to you," he muttered. "Atherton?"

"You will explain it better," Bertram said. "Or Medhurst."

But it was Mr Fielding who stepped forward and said impatiently, "Oh, for heaven's sake! Miss Franklyn, we are here because we are all concerned for your happiness. You looked so miserable last night, and knowing that it arises from Lady Esther's prohibition on the learning of Latin, we are here to propose a solution."

Bea brightened. "You know of some way to convince Mama? I should be very happy to hear of it."

"Not… not that," Mr Fielding said, licking his lips. He looked at the others, but none of them seemed inclined to speak, so he went on, "The solution, it seems to us, is for you to marry… and marry someone who will not mind… will encourage you to learn."

"You, Mr Fielding?" she said gently.

He gave a nervous smile. "There is nothing I should like better, as you know, but… not necessarily me. One of us… any one of us. We would all… be happy to… to…"

"To marry you," Bertram put in, rather loudly. "You can choose, Bea."

She gazed round at them, puzzled. What were they saying? What did it mean? Could they really all want to marry her? Even Bertram? No, it was impossible.

"All of you?" she said, her voice rising.

"All of us," Bertram said.

"Even you, Bertram?"

He flushed, but looked her straight in the eye and nodded.

"Marry any one of us you like," Lord Thomas said.

"The title of your choice," Lord Brockscombe said.

"But…?" she floundered. "Are you proposing to me… are all of you proposing because you are sorry that I am not allowed to learn Latin?"

"Not me," Mr Fielding put in quickly. "I have other reasons. As you know."

"We have other reasons, too," Lord Thomas said. "It is not just the Latin."

"Yes, you want the dowry, too," Mr Fielding said. "You all want the dowry."

"It is not about money," Lord Brockscombe said testily. "Honestly, Fielding, you make it sound so sordid, as if we were nothing but fortune hunters."

"Well, why do else you want to marry her, if not for that?" Mr Fielding said hotly. "It is not as if you love her, is it?"

There was a long silence, heavy with tension, as three of the men glared at each other. Lord Thomas's hands clenched into fists, as if he wanted to hit one or other of his friends. Bertram simply stared at his feet, red faced.

Bea was almost too angry to speak, but then she saw the funny side of the situation, and started to laugh. At once, the tension dissipated, like the popping of a soap bubble, and the men smiled, too.

"You must not fall out over me," she said. "Or for any reason. You are all very kind but…"

But…? Was she truly going to turn them down… all of them? It was madness. Here was everything she had always wanted, offered to her freely. A respectable marriage, even a title, the summit of her ambition for much of her life, and she could even have Bertram, and those kisses that tormented her dreams. She could be the Countess of Rennington, just as she had always intended. The plum was hers again, and all she had to do was to reach out for it.

No. She could not do it. She knew that Bertram did not wish to marry — not her, not anyone. He had told her so a score of times. He was offering, and his friends were offering too, because of pity, not love, and that was a bad foundation for marriage. There must be love, or at least affection and respect, on both sides.

For once, her head and her heart were in agreement. It would not do.

"I am very sorry, gentlemen, and I thank you most sincerely for the honour you do me, but I cannot marry any of you."

Lord Thomas frowned. "Are you sure? Why not think about it?"

But Bertram said, "Miss Franklyn has spoken, Medhurst. Pray respect her decision."

"Indeed, that was a very settled no," Lord Brockscombe said, but he smiled at her, as if he were relieved.

Bertram gave her a watery smile, too, and heaved a deep sigh, as though he had completed a difficult assignment and was now free of duties for the rest of the day. Yes, she had done right to refuse them. Never had she encountered such reluctant suitors! They filed out silently, and, shaking her head in bemusement, she sat down at the table and opened her writing box.

But for a long time she sat and stared into space. This was what they thought of her — what even Bertram thought of her, as an object of pity. She was so pathetic a creature in his eyes that he would even overcome all his own scruples and offer to marry her. It was humiliating.

Hot tears dropped unheeded onto the paper in front of her. It was too much to bear. How could she hold her head up in public anymore? She was nothing… nobody. Not her father's daughter, and not even worthy of respect from an honest man, never mind a lord. No wonder she had never found a husband in town. Only fortune hunters, or Walter, too lazy to object, or Latin scholars who pitied her.

How had she come to this position? And what on earth was she to do with her life now?

***

Bertram was elated. He had declared himself, after a fashion, and Bea could be in no doubt that he was willing to marry her. She had not accepted him, but at least she had not accepted any of the others, either, which would have been a severe blow. He could not quite say how it had happened, but by degrees he had come to think of her as his own, and would have taken her loss badly.

With their time at Landerby almost over, there was very little time left for anyone to sweep in and scoop her up. Grayling had taken Franklyn's covert warning to heart and had avoided Bea ever since the tournament, and there were no other rivals. Bertram and the Franklyns would return to the North Riding, and he then had all the time in the world to court Bea properly and win her hand.

This plan received an unexpected boost at breakfast, when Franklyn came to sit beside him. "What are your plans for the homeward journey, Atherton? You have no carriage here, I notice."

"I have a post-chaise ordered for Thursday, sir."

"We travel on Thursday, too. Would you care to take up the last seat in our carriage? There will be room for your man in the luggage coach."

Two whole days in Bea's company! What better start to his campaign for her heart and hand could there be? But perhaps this was an impulsive offer that would be squashed by Lady Esther.

"How very kind you are, sir, but I should not wish to inconvenience the ladies at all. If the Lady Esther should dislike the plan—"

"Not the least inconvenience in the world. It was my wife's idea, and your company will be most welcome."

"In that case, I gladly accept. I will send word to cancel the post-chaise. My groom can ride ahead to ensure our accommodation is ready."

Two days later, after an early breakfast, Bertram found himself seated in the Franklyns' palatial carriage, directly opposite Bea. He had armed himself with a book to read so that he would not be tempted to look at her continuously, but it was not easy to read when she was so close to him. It was fortunate that he was not especially tall, or their knees would have bumped together with every lurch of the carriage, but every time he raised his eyes from the page, there she was.

He tried to recall a time when he had not noticed her at all, but he could not. His earliest impressions of her when she had first moved to Birchall as a girl of sixteen had not been favourable, but he could not now understand why. He had thought her liveliness too forward, perhaps. The mass of lovely curls that surrounded her face distracted from her delicate beauty. One noticed the richness of her clothes rather than the elegance of her dress or her well-formed figure.

And then she had quickly attached herself to Walter and had hardly been seen at Westwick after that, apart from the minimum that politeness dictated. Lucas had called her a leech, and Bertram could understand that, for her pursuit of Walter had been relentless. Bertram had seen little of her, and had scarcely thought of her from one month to the next. Now he thought of little else. He looked up from his book surreptitiously now and then, just to see the curve of her cheek, or those luscious curls bouncing with the movement of the carriage. He could not see her eyes, for mostly her head was turned away from him, gazing out of the window at the passing scenery, and the sides of her bonnet hid much of her face. But every time she spoke, she turned back a little, and then he could see the whole of her lovely face, if he dared to look.

Not that she spoke often. Nor did her father speak, for no sooner had the carriage rolled away down the overgrown drive of Landerby Manor than he removed his hat, leaned back against the squabs and closed his eyes. It was Lady Esther who carried the conversation, more or less single-handedly, starting with a summary of all that had happened at Landerby, as if they had not all been there and experienced these events for themselves. The monologue then moved forward to encompass the journey home, mentioning, with wearying detail, every single inn, village, town and way point of interest.

None of this required much participation from her captive audience, but Bea threw in a ‘Yes, Mama' or a ‘No, Mama' from time to time. Lady Esther came eventually to their return to Highwood Place, and the letters she expected to be awaiting her there, and here she turned more directly to Bea.

"I have written to Charity Ramsey to press her on the matter of our visit there this autumn, for she did promise… well, perhaps it was not quite a promise. Something about expecting us there. Do you remember her exact words, Beatrice?"

"I believe she said that she expected to be entertaining at Brandlebury this autumn, so that Marshfields would be quieter for his grace."

"Ah yes, although Papa may be quiet enough if he stays in his own apartments. One does not have to clear the whole house just because one member of it may be indisposed."

"But the music… the constant noise," Bea said. "You said that you all had to creep about, for fear of disturbing him."

"Of course, but that was some weeks ago, and he is much better now. Besides, the ballroom is a great distance from the Old Tower. Still, one must humour a duke, so I do not blame Charity for that, although Brandlebury is considerably smaller. I do not know how she will fit us all in, but I have written to remind her that she invited us… or at least, that she ought to invite us. I do not care for myself, but time is marching on for you, Beatrice. I should like to get you settled before the spring. So if Charity fails us, we shall go to Bath."

"Must we, Mama?" Bea said. "Is it not very unfashionable to be seen there now?"

Lady Esther hesitated, then went on smoothly, "It has not the superior society to be found in London, certainly, but it is very elegant, and so much smaller that one may make a splash more readily."

"Is it essential that we make a splash? Perhaps we could have a quiet time at home, for a change."

Lady Esther gave a dainty laugh. "One must be seen, Beatrice. Only country squires spend their lives quietly at home. Persons of quality must be visible in society. You wish to be a credit to your father and to me, I am sure."

"Of course, Mama," Bea said quietly.

Bertram had been watching the colour come and go in Bea's cheeks, and trying to divine what it might signify. Now she looked rather glum, so he said, "Bath is a very gay place, with assemblies, musical evenings, galas and all manner of excitements. And the shops are excellent, and very conveniently gathered in one small area, rather than being scattered here, there and everywhere. There will be plenty to amuse you."

Bea frowned at him, which was puzzling, but Lady Esther said, "And plenty of eligible gentlemen, one hopes. Have you been there, Mr Atherton? I suppose your mother takes the waters there, or does she confine herself to Harrogate?"

"Oh… yes, Mother has been there several times. She has tried most of the well-known spas, I believe. I went along on one or two trips, when I happened to be down from Eton. It seemed a very lively place to me, with entertainments every evening, although I was too young to participate, and I doubt it has changed much in ten years. It is old-fashioned, though, so you will have to learn to dance the minuet, Miss Franklyn."

"That is an excellent point," Lady Esther said. "Beatrice knows the movements, of course, for she has been well taught, but we must practise a little. And the costume, too! I believe Bath still requires the full costume, with lappets. So quaint, but such an elegant dance. Ten years… Mrs Atherton has not been there lately? And yet her health still so indifferent."

"Nowadays she seldom ventures further afield than Harrogate."

"Yet nothing seems to mend what ails her, does it?" Lady Esther said. "I do wonder if she might go on better if she thought less about her health. It sometimes happens that a female who dwells upon every little ache and twinge may cause the very affliction she fears. I knew a lady who was a great sufferer, but once she married and had children she had no time to spare for maladies."

Bertram laughed. "I wish it were so with Mother, but when she leaves Westwick she is always ill, and genuinely so. Her life was despaired of when she was no more than Miss Franklyn's age. But the good, clean air and water of the North Riding cured her of her ailments, if not of the worry of them. She will be very happy to let you know of the best baths and physicians in Bath, and to inform her friends there of your visit."

"Oh, I have my own acquaintances there," Lady Esther said, her well-bred voice displaying only the faintest hint of surprise that anyone would consider her to need introductions to any society. "The Lady Louisa Horsfell, Lady Mellish, General Sir Marmaduke Grimsby, Lady Watson… I shall write to some of them. The York Hotel is the most superior establishment, I believe. We shall stay there."

She continued to talk of Bath for some time, but since she required little response apart from Bea's occasional murmurings, Bertram felt safe to return to his book, or to pretend to, at least. There was a certain set to Bea's mouth when she looked his way that worried him. Had he offended her in some manner? Yet when he reflected on his contribution to the conversation, he could find no cause for offence. It was puzzling. But she had been out of sorts in some way ever since he had rushed out into the garden to save her from Grayling. It was beyond his understanding.

They reached the Crown at Bawtry, their overnight stop, in good time for dinner.

"This looks a pleasant place," Franklyn said, as ostlers rushed forward to attend to them, and a respectable innkeeper and his wife appeared, holding umbrellas to shield them from the rain.

"I shall need to inspect the bedrooms," Lady Esther said.

"Mr Atherton has stayed here many times, and recommends it," Franklyn said. "Besides, we have our own sheets."

"That does not help if there is the slightest dampness in the bed itself," she said. "I always inspect the rooms in a new place, Mr Franklyn, as you know very well." So saying, she accepted the innkeeper's arm to alight and swept into the inn.

"So be it," Franklyn said, without rancour. He turned to Bea and Bertram. "You two had better wait in the carriage until we are settled. The rain is fierce, and there is no point getting wet unless you have to. This will not take long, I hope."

He followed his wife, and for a moment silence fell. Bea still had that odd look about the mouth, so Bertram hurried to fill the silence.

"This is an excellent place. I am sure Lady Esther will find no fault."

"Of course she will. She always finds something amiss. Except at Marshfields. Nothing is ever wrong at Marshfields."

Bertram raised his eyebrows at the unusually sharp tone in her voice. "Ah well, there is nowhere so perfect as home, is there?"

But she glared at him. "Why do you always take her side? Papa I can understand, since he chose to marry her, but you have no reason to support her rather than me. I thought you were my friend, Bertram."

Bertram floundered against this unexpected attack. "I am only being polite, Bea."

"You could be polite to me for a change."

"When have I not been polite? I am not aware—"

"No, of course you are not aware! You never are. Quite oblivious to what I might be feeling, so when I tried to deter her from this wretched Bath scheme, you had to jump in feet first and make it sound oh, so wonderful! Assemblies! Musical evenings! Galas! And shops! As if I cared about galas or shops. What is the matter with you? Why are you so contrary? I thought you were a straightforward sort of man, and now I find you to be just as twisty and devious as the worst of them."

Bertram's mouth opened and closed ineffectually in astonishment. Twisty? Devious? Was that truly how she saw him?

"Bea, I am sorry if I said the wrong thing. I was only trying to help, and clearly I should never have intervened. But if you truly hate the idea of Bath, then tell Lady Esther so."

"She would not listen!"

"But your father would. You are not a child any more — you are one and twenty, a grown woman and fully entitled to your own opinions. Tell her—"

Franklyn's head appeared at the open carriage door, a wry smile on his lips. "The Lady Esther is pleased to approve the accommodations. We may enter. Take care across the yard. The rain has made it slippery."

He offered his hand to Bea as she descended, and Bertram was left to follow them into the inn in such a disordered state of mind that he hardly knew what he was about.