Authors: C.C. Humphreys
A knocking coincided with his contented sigh. ‘Come,’ he shouted.
The servants’ door, recessed into the wall so as to be almost invisible and not spoil the symmetry of the room, swung in and
Fagg entered. In Bath, servants often came with the house and Jack had been happy he needn’t search one out, though the man
was next to useless, cross-eyed, monosyllabic and surly with it. He now set down a bowl of chocolate and what was sure to
be a stale bun.
‘Breakfast,’ the fellow muttered, moving slowly to open the shutters.
‘Oh,
thank
you,’ replied Jack, propping himself higher up on the bolster, ‘and at such a fine hour.’
The rebuke was ignored. Light filled the room. It was going to be another glorious day. At the sight, Jack began to whistle,
getting louder when he saw the man wince. Fagg was undoubtedly sick from the night before. Jack had learned he
could rely on this servant for no late-night cheese toast in the chafing dish. He would be drunk and snoring in his attic
by ten.
At the door, Fagg stopped, turned. ‘Forgot,’ he said, and shuffled back. ‘Post.’
Two letters were dropped on the bed. Jack’s whistling ceased. He’d sent letters to London only ten days before. That replies
had come so swiftly was amazing. Some Bath fellow called Allen ran the best service in the country, apparently.
Fagg stood looking down at him. ‘News, sir?’ he said, as if the idea was the dullest imaginable.
Jack looked at the envelopes. One was from Mayfair and Absolute House, the other from Hertford, though Jack knew no one there.
Turning it over, he saw that the wax seal bore the regimental insignia of the 16th Light Dragoons. ‘I’ll let you know, Fagg.’
‘Oh, good.’ The fellow limped out, forgetting to close the door.
Jack studied the envelopes again. Putting off the news from his regiment, he opened the one from home. The envelope did not
bear his mother’s elegant copperplate, however, and he was surprised to discover it was from Nancy, the Absolute housekeeper.
He hadn’t known she could write.
‘Dear Jack,’ it read. ‘Lawks we woz glad to here from you tho only me and Timothy woz ere to tost the news. First they says
you woz missin praps dead then alive. You cawzed your mother sum grief sartain.’
Jack looked up, thought. Because of his capture by the Abenaki on the Plains of Abraham in the autumn of 1759, report had
been returned that he was probably dead. When he’d shown up alive in the spring, he’d written to his mother then and eventually
received a reply. However, she could not yet know that he had missed his ship and sat out another winter in America.
He returned to the page. ‘She’s gawn, joined your father in Germoney where ee fights the war. She was too flestered ere with
scummy loyers talking confiscashun and such …’
That would be because of the duel his father had fought on Jack’s behalf, killing Lord Melbury. Both Absolutes had gone to
war to avoid the consequences and perhaps win glory enough to mitigate the law’s harshness. Duelling was illegal anyway but
Melbury had also been a King’s Minister.
‘… but so far tis only talk. I ave sent your letter on to Hangover. Timothy and I keep the house and awate the safe return
of all Absolutes. God bless and keep ye Jack, Your Nance.’
So his parents were still in Hanover. He would have been glad to see them, with so much to tell. But perhaps it was for the
best. They would have something to say about his plans no doubt. He hadn’t yet heard of a parent who did not want to interfere
in their offspring’s romances. Far better to have it done and introduce them to their rich and beautiful daughter-in-law anon.
He picked up the second letter with reluctance. He’d only written to his regiment because not doing so would be the first
step to desertion. The writing was as neat as Nance’s had been wild, the contents confined to three terse sentences: ‘You
will report to the regiment’s surgeon immediately. Colonel Burgoyne in command of two troops in attack on Belleisle. Needs
replacement officers.’ It was signed by the quartermaster at what had to be the regiment’s new headquarters in Hertford.
Jack sighed. They’d want to take a look at him and, if he could walk, ship him off to fight. He did not want to go. This war
was over, near enough, the newspapers testifying to the fact that the French were beaten nearly everywhere. This attack on
Belleisle, an island just off their Atlantic coast, was a mere diversion, drawing resources away from the war in
Germany. It would just be his luck, having survived all he had, to be killed on the last day of the war.
Still, he would have to report. But they could not know how quickly the letter had reached him, nor the affairs he must settle
before he went. And if one particularly ended the way he hoped … well, he’d been a reluctant soldier anyway, circumstance
forcing him in. And he’d done enough. If the war
was
nearly over, he saw no future in a peace-time career. The uniform was pretty but there were many colours he preferred over
scarlet. And more comfortable places to spend winters than a barracks.
Energized, he arose, made a quick toilet and dressed. The tattered uniform was smelling worse by the day, Fagg’s cleaning
being as slack as his other labours. He hoped she wouldn’t notice it when he proposed. It would detract somewhat from the
romantic image she so desired.
He left, as ever, via the back door. He doubted she or Mrs O’Farrell watched the front but he needed to maintain the illusion
of the aunt whom he visited occasionally. Leaving by the front door just after eight in the morning would not serve that.
Jack proceeded by a side path to the Circus. Once reached, he looked first to the house on the other side, number six, where
his love resided. The front door was still shrouded in scaffolding. Indeed, it seemed to Jack that nothing had been done to
it in the time he’d been there. Certainly he’d never seen a workman upon it. It must have annoyed Mrs O’Farrell especially,
always having to use the garden entrance.
He looked behind him, to the magnificent doorway of his own number twenty-two. He’d been little concerned with architecture
though knew this style was called Palladian; also knew enough to recognize these Woods – father and son – had built well,
although a little extravagantly for his taste. A frieze of figures derived from antiquity, children’s toys and,
Jack noted, Masonic ritual ran through each house on its architrave, linking each to its neighbour. The whole gave the impression
of some Roman Coliseum, and though many opposed this constant harping on the Classical, Jack found it reassuring. It reminded
him of London and especially his own Mayfair.
It will be good when they finish it, he thought. Letty’s was only one of about ten still being worked upon, though near all
labour was concentrated at number twenty-one. Red Hugh had mentioned that the activity was to do with the visit of no one
less than the King of England. George, third of that name and succeeding to the throne the year before, was making his first
progress through his realm. And the Corporation of Bath thought they might draw an even wealthier crowd to their town if they
bribed the King to stay by gifting him one of John Wood’s superb new houses in this, the most fashionable new development
in the town.
A group was attempting to insert a chandelier through the front door, the glass structure wider than the frame. Jack smiled
at some of the language, in a variety of provincial tongues, thought he could hear some good Cornish curses among them. He’d
met a countryman of his on the works, one Dirk Trewennan, who was convinced Jack left by the back door each morning because
he was tupping some rich married woman inside. He’d also told Jack to prevail upon her to let him stay the next day, when
the house was to be presented to ‘Georgie’. ‘From that house you’ll have the best view in all of Bath, young squire,’ he’d
declared.
Jack truly didn’t care. If there must be kings – and his mother kept assuring him that there did not have to be – he preferred
the late one to his grandson. At least the old George was a cavalryman. In fact, he’d knighted Jack’s father on the field
at Dettingen. Not to mention sending Jack as his messenger to Canada. Besides, Jack Absolute had far more important affairs
to deal with.
*
He found her at the King’s Bath. There was a bit of a struggle to gain a viewing step – the town urchins would cling to the
rail and bawl, ‘Murder!’ if he didn’t buy one off – but a groat secured him the place.
He didn’t see her at first, such was the crowd, all dressed in the uniform of the bather, the plain linen smock that covered
everyone ankle to chin. Half crowded the edge, half were in the water looking, from his elevation, like so many spaniels aimlessly
seeking duck. The women wore loose bonnets, the men went barehead, both sexes pushing little floating trays that held their
snuff, nosegays, cloths and other trinkets. It was early enough for the surface of the water not to be too thick with scum.
Later bathers, Jack knew, would be cutting courses like ploughs through a manure-rich field.
He shuddered as he kept up the search. Give him a clear Canadian river for his bathing any day! Despite the quacks’ opinions,
such immersion could not be good for one. He knew that the water flowed direct from the ground but once in the pool, what
horrors of the human body did it mix with? The same revulsion made him avoid drinking the waters. It may have been pumped
straight into his glass from volcanic depths but it tasted as if it had run over a few scrofulous bodies first, all sulphur
and iron. He’d never liked to drink water, even when he knew he had to aboard the
Robuste.
Fortunately the beer in Bath was excellent. From small beer in the morning that would not affect his motion, through pints
of porter in the afternoon that made him smile, ending with a few strong ales in the evening to hasten sleep, he had renewed
his love for all things brewed. Give him beer and he was happy. It delighted the senses, ruddied the complexion and had already
begun to put back the weight the fever had taken away. He was halfway to health with his self-prescribed treatments. The quacks
could go hang!
Then he saw her, and all thought of beer, of illnesses, of
anything else, vanished. She rose from the water almost directly beneath him, with the linen sack that was meant to obliterate
all distinctions of the body spectacularly failing to do so. He assumed it was the same as everyone else wore there, a shapeless
sack. But whereas everyone else’s clung to them in a unifyingly dull manner, hers was pushed out by what could only be a pair
of the most divinely shaped breasts, then fell to splay over gently rounded hips. Even the plain bonnet seemed to enhance
rather than obscure the natural magenta of her hair.
She climbed the stone steps slowly, carefully. At the top she paused, a naked ankle glimpsed as her foot sought a drier piece
of stone from which to advance. And as she paused she looked up, straight at him. She knew he’d be there. He knew she knew.
But the surprise that widened those extraordinary green eyes was so genuine, so delighted, he couldn’t help a thrilled laugh.
He winked, she winked back. Then he saw a bonnet following Letty. He stepped away. Mrs O’Farrell must not catch him there;
indeed anywhere. Her guardian had grown careful ever since she’d discovered some trifle of a poem he’d sent. Though he’d signed
it ‘your Anonymous Amour’, she had guessed at its provenance, and Letty had been ordered to spurn all future contact and return,
unopened, any correspondence. If he encountered them in the street, he was allowed polite formalities for the sake of his
gallantry ten nights before; but he was allowed no private audience – that she knew of! Jack didn’t mind. It heightened Letty’s
sense of persecution. When that became unbearable …
He ran a hand through his straggling black hair. As always, the force of his desire took him by surprise. Sometimes when he
was plotting, he thought that was all this was – a plot, an escapade to be carried out with daring and pluck – and then he’d
see her.
She emerged in a speedy half-hour, that magnificence now
held within a fetching gown of lavender silk, her arm through Mrs O’Farrell’s. Jack ducked behind a column, watched them cross
from the baths towards the south side of the Abbey. He knew where they were bound; their daily activities followed a fixed
pattern. After their ablutions they would take refreshments, either at a coffee-house reserved for ladies or at a subscription
library. One of each faced the Orange Grove at the far side of the church.
Jack watched them disappear round the corner. Normally he would leave them to it. But with the sun now warm on his face and
the memory of clinging linen so fresh in his mind, he decided to follow. Perhaps she would look back and he could kiss his
fingers to her?
They passed the ladies’ coffee-house, walked into the doorway of Frederick’s bookshop and library. Even though he knew he
shouldn’t, Jack followed.
He had been there once before, when he’d sought inspiration for his romantic gestures, and had stood between the stacks of
books skimming through one entitled
The Vanquish’d Heart.
He had learned much of what behaviour was expected in the five minutes before Frederick himself discovered he had no subscription
and no desire to take one out. Fortunately this day the owner was not stood sentinel at the table by the entrance.
It was a long room, from the far end of which came the thrum of low-voiced conversation, the clink of spoon in cup. Two rows
of bookcases of about shoulder height stood between the volume-lined walls, making three passages. In the central one, he
could make out Mrs O’Farrell’s towering hair. ‘I’ll order us a bowl and buns, my dear. You may browse,’ he heard her say.
Immediately there came a loud ‘Shhh!’ and the hair nodded its way to the far end of the room, where talk was allowed and gossip
encouraged.
Crouching, Jack slid along the first bookcase till he could see. He stepped immediately back. Two dresses occupied the middle
passage; the lavender was the second. He tip-toed up
the side of the room and, when he was opposite where he calculated she would be, he popped up.