Amy Lake (14 page)

“Oh, my dear,” said Lady Cynthia one day, “we can decorate that bedroom completely to your taste, you know!  It can be your second home!”

I wondered how it was possible that she and Sir Reginald should care so much, when the earl and countess cared so little.

“What will you tell your parents after I’ve gone?” I asked Cassandra.  We were walking in the back garden, which was as pleasant, in its own way, as that of Roselay.  Sir Reginald’s flowers were allowed a bit more latitude in terms of rambling, and their many fragrances ran riot as much as the greenery. 

“The truth,” said Cassie.  “Or at least most of it.”

“I worry that they will think badly of me.”

“They adore you, and ’tis hardly a scandal for a young woman to visit her aunt.”

“Speaking of which—don’t they wonder where Perry has got off to?”

“Oh,” said Miss Barre, “I told them
that
. They know he went to Bath.”

“What!”

“My mother remembers Aunt Sophie and is delighted that you are attempting to contact her.  I rather think she feels you need respite from the countess.”

“True enough,” I said, smiling.

Cassie was hesitating over something, I could tell.

“What?”

“The countess has your best interests at heart, I believe.”

I sighed.  “I believe so as well.  But she has always wanted me to be a person that I am not.”

“If you marry Lord Davies,” said Cassandra, who had not given up, “both you and your mother can be happy.”

“I would be terribly
unhappy
.”

“I,” said Miss Barre, “am not so certain of that.”

* * * *

We waited on pins and needles for the groom’s return, and after only three nights Perry was back.  With a letter from my aunt.

My dear Regina—

’Twas written on stationery that was clearly decades old; an old-fashioned rag-paper with torn edges.  The handwriting, on the other hand, was plain and—although occasionally difficult to read because of the smudges from a bad quill—showed no sign of unsteadiness.

I would be delighted to see you again.  We shall

have a merry time in Bath, come as soon as you

wish.

-S.

I stared at the letter as if ’twas the barrel of a pistol.  A trip to Bath had not really seemed possible until that moment.  Now what was to stop me?

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” said Cassandra, looking at my face. “You can go back to Roselay this instant.”

I was telling myself the same thing.  The longing to be Lord Davies’s wife, to give in, to solve everyone else’s problems with a simple ‘yes’ came over me like a wave.  And I think, in the end, my resolve was strengthened only by the sudden thought of the viscount falling in love with some other woman.  He would, wouldn’t he?  People did.  And there I would be, the unwanted wife at the dinner party, smiling bravely as everyone around me saw my husband flirting with Lady Such-and-So, and everyone knew why.

I imagined the glances of pity that would come my way. 

“I’m going,” I told Cassie.

She nodded.  “Then we will need to organize a carriage.  I’ll speak with my father.”

* * * *

Cassandra went to talk to Sir Reginald, and after a few minutes I was called into his study.  All three of the Barres were there, Miss Barre smiling in encouragement, her parents looking concerned and serious.  Cassie had shown them the note from my aunt, which was all well and good, but since I was to leave directly for Bath, without first returning to Roselay, it was obvious that the rest of my family was not yet apprised of my plans.  Sir Reginald was willing to lend one of the Barre carriages, but only on the understanding that the earl and countess would be told where I was going.

 Fortunately, on this point ’twas unnecessary to lie.  The letter which I had written to my parents was produced, one in which I declared myself to be excessively fatigued from the social demands of London and in need of time to refresh my spirits, which a stay with my dear aunt in Bath would accomplish admirably.  The earl and countess would understand my meaning at once, but on the surface it was unobjectionable.  Cassandra’s parents declared themselves satisfied, and the entire household became involved in the trip, which was to begin the very next morning.  Perry would accompany me, along with the coachman and Lucy, Miss Barre’s own lady’s maid.

“It’s rather exciting,” said Cassie’s mother.  “Rather like an adventure!”

Sir Reginald and Lady Cynthia remained unaware, however, of one pertinent detail, to whit, that I was fleeing an engagement.  Cassie and I had discussed this over and over, and we both felt certain—and in the event, were proved correct—that neither my parents nor Lord Davies were likely to advertise that fact.  Angry and insistent my father might be, but he knew me well enough to at least wonder if he could force me to marry, and doubt would make him cautious.  He and the countess would have the single interest of seeing the affair through without scandal, and bruiting an engagement would not serve that end. 

The viscount would, we believed, feel the same for the sake of Carys and Isolde.  Unless he was irritated enough to be spiteful, but somehow I did not believe spite of the man I had kissed.

* * * *

I had one small piece of business to take care of before I went anywhere—and the more I thought of it, the more I worried.

Who would bother to pay the household accounts?  ’Twould be even worse than before for the butcher and greengrocer, as my father had gotten out of the habit, such as it was, of doing the job himself.   After some thought I composed a lengthy note to Faulkes, and—without giving him details of my own plans—told our man of affairs that he should extend the necessary sums to the housekeeper, assuring him that Mrs Peaseley was to be trusted with this commission.

And furthermore—goodness, I’d almost forgotten—as soon as the quarterly remittance arrived he should send a draft to Mr and Mrs Riddpathe at Belvoir Manor, in the amount of twenty-five pounds.  The money for this cheque, which I had discussed with Faulkes earlier, had been obtained by the most careful attention and scrimping on expenses at Roselay.   ’Twas to pay for much-needed repairs to the estate cottages, and I had already written to the Riddpathes to tell them it would be on its way within the month.

There.  ’Twas done.  And for the moment, at least, I was free.

Chapter 24:  Taken Ill

When Lucien Cranfield and Lord Peter next saw the viscount at White’s he was in a very different, and sober, frame of mind.

“Lady Regina is unwell?” asked Lord Peter, who had heard the news from Lady Helen.

“Yes,” said Talfryn.  “She has been too ill to rise from her bed for several days.”

So Lord Davies had been told when he called at Roselay, and he had no reason to doubt Lord Knowles on this score.  Both the earl and the countess had been distraught, Lady Knowles to the point of tears, and even the servants he encountered wore long, worried faces.  It made Talfryn think better of Lady Regina’s parents, in particular the father, who had not seemed much concerned for his daughter at their previous meeting.

“Helen says even her friends cannot see her,” said Peter.  “Not even Miss Barre.”

Lucien frowned.  “Do they say what is the problem?  The grippe?”

The grippe was bad enough; Lord Davies was avoiding any thought the myriad of other and very serious diseases that one might fall victim to in London.  A fine house and title was no protection against consumption or the ague.

“I do not know,” he admitted.  “I’ve heard nothing specific.  They’ve asked that naught be said about the engagement, for now—”

 He saw the surprise of that mirrored in Lucien and Peter’s expression, and it made Lord Davies feel much, much worse.

Chapter 25: The Great Road

The journey to Bath would have been an exceedingly pleasant one under different circumstances.  We were out of the noise and dirt of London within an hour, and soon passed the six-mile stone, where a road branches off to Kew and Richmond.  Lucy—Miss Barre’s maid—was beside herself with excitement to be outside of town for the first time in her life, and I was as eager as she to see such sights as Windsor Castle, and the remains of the splendid mansion at Cliefden; I understood the latter to still be a ruin, having burned down some years previously.

As I was leaving Barre House, Cassandra ran out and handed me a large parcel.  ’Twas a hamper with bread and cheese, and strawberries—Cassie knows that I cannot eat anything heavy in a carriage—and on top was a small book, carefully wrapped in tissue-paper.  

I glanced at the title—
A Topographical Survey of the Great Road from London to Bath and Bristol
—and was amused to read the flowery dedication written by its author, one Mr Archibald Robertson, to Prince George.  I suppose Cassie felt that I would be less likely to be panicked if I had something with which to occupy myself during the two long and tiring days of my journey, and the
Survey
looked to be a rather complete description of the whole.  So there was a considerable amount of information at my disposal, including a number of fine plates to illustrate the more notable sights.  Even lesser attractions were not omitted.

The village of Brentford is chiefly composed of one street of great length; the houses in general are irregular, small, and ill built.

I sat back on the impeccably upholstered cushions of the coach, bouncing a little and gaining a smile from Lucy. 

“It be ever so fine, don’t it, milady?” said the maid, meaning as I supposed, the coach.

“Indeed it is.”  Sir Reginald did not skimp on his equipage, and I thought I might even enjoy such travel.  The earl’s own traveling carriage was grander in outward appearance, but speaking as one who has spent many hours inside the thing, ’twas far less comfortable.  

“Sir Reginald ’as ever the best.”

It may be different on the Continent, but in England a title is no certain indication of wealth.  My family was considerably more elevated than Miss Barre’s in terms of rank, but as to blunt, Sir Reginald and Lady Cynthia had much the advantage.

They did not waste it all on fine horses and brandy, I supposed.

There is no point to counting the hours in such a journey; the coach will arrive when it arrives.  But that does not make one less anxious.  During the trip my emotions swung wildly; one moment I was full of energy and self-congratulation, and the next I was plunged into despair and wished nothing more than to return to London. 

I am in charge of my own fate, I told myself.

I cannot be forced into a marriage that would make me unhappy.

And then (accompanied by a slight, repressed sniffle)—

Lord Davies.  Lord Davies.  Lord Davies.

I am ashamed to admit that those were my thoughts.  But even the silliest miss recognizes that she must carry through once the die is cast.  I was going to Bath.  I would visit my Aunt Sophie.

Do not imagine that I never thought of my family, or cared nothing for what my actions were likely to cost them.  Without my marriage to the viscount, Freddie could not secure Lady Celia’s hand.  I wanted him to be as happy as he could, but I could not throw down my whole life at his whim.  I had spent enough time already, worrying about Freddie’s expenses.  It was time for him to worry about his own. 

Which did not solve the problem of the enormous sum of the earl’s money already transferred to the Duke of Wenrich, of course.  Surely his grace will return those funds, I thought.  That would be the only honourable thing to do.

Wouldn’t it?  I had just enough experience of the dealings of the
haut ton
to harbor some doubts.  No gentleman would ever contemplate cheating at cards, but they did seem to bed each other’s wives with alarming regularity.

My father can sell Three Stags, I reminded myself.  He can.

If it had not been for Mr Avendale’s offer I might have felt differently about the expedition to Bath.  Perhaps I would have convinced myself that I must marry Lord Davies.  But the offer existed.  Was a hunting lodge truly more important to my family than a daughter?

I wondered what Aunt Sophie would say.  Perhaps she would turn me right around and send me home.

I also wondered if either of my communications had yet reached Roselay.  After some discussion, Cassie and I had decided that a single letter—the one that her parents had seen—was not enough to make the situation clear to the earl and countess, and she was to send another once I was well clear of town.  Miss Barre and I worked out this second missive very carefully, in an attempt to forestall any precipitate action on the part of my father.

My dear parents,

I am indeed going to Bath, as I recently received a communication from

Aunt Sophie, who requests that I pay her a visit.  You will do as you wish,

of course, with regards to the Viscount of Cardingham; however,

I must tell you that I much dislike the situation in which I have been

placed, and have no immediate plans for a return to London.

Your daughter, etc., etc.

  The message, we felt, was clear enough.  The Earl of Aveline could make my supposed engagement public, and send word of it to the papers, but he would be ill-advised to do so, because he could not force me from my aunt’s house.  I doubted he would try.

* * * *

Sir Reginald’s coachman kept a smart pace throughout the morning.  We stopped at the inn near Maidenhead bridge for tea, and to change the horses; afterwards I managed to sleep a little in the carriage, and I believe even Lucy became drowsy.

As many can attest, the movement of a carriage, and the awkward position of sleeping therein, is conducive to the oddest sort of dreams.  On that afternoon I found myself already in Bath, a strange enough occurrence as I had never before visited the town, and had no idea of its arrangement.

But there I was, with Lord Davies at my side.  I felt certain that he loved me, and I leaned my head against his shoulder as his arm came around my waist.  Neither of us spoke for a long time.  Then he said my name, once softly, and walked away.