Belinda Goes to Bath (6 page)

Penelope, who was tone-deaf, sat like a classical statue with her mouth in the same little curved smile and her eyes as blank.

The marquess leaned back in an armchair and stretched out his buckled shoes to the blaze. He looked with admiration at Penelope, at the lines of her body, at the proud set of her head, and then, almost despite himself, his gaze was drawn to Belinda.

Her eyes were full of dreams, and her wispy, baby-fine hair gave her an elfin look. That splendidly
passionate mouth of hers was in repose, just waiting for a kiss …

He gave himself a mental shake. The evening had turned out very pleasant after all. Judd was a superb performer. Penelope was behaving just as she ought. Mrs Judd looked happy and at ease for the first time. She was a dainty little thing, thought the marquess, despite her unfashionable gown. Her fair hair was dressed in ringlets and her wide eyes were pale blue and her skin was fine and delicate. When Mr Judd ceased playing for a moment, the marquess asked her, ‘Do you sing as well, Mrs Judd? It would give me great pleasure to hear you.’

Belinda expected Mrs Judd to blush and disclaim but she rose and walked quietly to the piano and stood beside her husband. She began to sing ‘Cherry Ripe’. Belinda sat up straight, her eyes wide with amazement. Mrs Judd had a beautiful soprano voice, as clear as a bell.

What a pair of nightingales! thought the marquess. And what are they doing hidden away in a ladies’ seminary in Bath?

Only Hannah and Penelope remained unmoved; Penelope because music meant nothing to her, good or bad, and Hannah because her mind was busy with plans. Mrs Judd was eminently bullyable. But what was it that started friction in a marriage? Why, debt, lack of money, thought Hannah with satisfaction. Rows began and went on. Mr Judd was a weak man and in a perverse way had begun to enjoy ill-treating his wife. The crushable Mrs Judd had begun to sink
under such treatment and, thinking little of herself, obscurely felt she deserved it, which, in a woman, was an open invitation for more bad treatment.

Before leaving her husband, Mrs Clarence, wife of Hannah’s late employer, had held a musicale in Thornton Hall, their home in Kensington. Ever considerate of the servants, she had arranged for the staff to listen outside the room in which the concert was being held. A couple of singers, man and wife, had been engaged at great expense. But they had not been nearly so good as the Judds, thought Hannah. Something must be done about them. It was no use saying Mrs Judd would be better off without that husband of hers. Women like Mrs Judd would simply go ahead and find another bully. They need a patron, thought Hannah, eyeing the marquess covertly. That gentleman was sitting enraptured by the singing, his normally austere face looking younger. He and Belinda looked similar in that moment, each wrapped up in the pleasure of the music.

They must marry.

Hannah gave a little sigh. She had set herself a great task, but she was determined that if Hannah Pym had any say in the matter, then Belinda Earle would arrive in Bath as an engaged lady.

The song was finished. The marquess, despite his absorption, had nonetheless sensed that it was Belinda, not Penelope, who had shared his pleasure in the singing and music.

Hannah decided to retire and have a good night’s
sleep while she made her plans. She usually needed very little sleep, but the bitter cold of the day and the alarms of the accident had left her feeling tired. Belinda rose at the same time, curtsied to the company, and followed Hannah from the room. The Judds, too, made their escape.

‘An unexpectedly charming evening,’ said Penelope. ‘It is very educational to study people of a rank lower than oneself.’

‘I think you will find Miss Earle is of our rank in life,’ said the marquess. Having been toadied to and then pursued by adventurers and wastrels from an early age, he had developed a nice eye for social distinctions. ‘In fact, I know I have heard the name before. Untitled aristocracy, I believe.’

‘Are you sure?’ cooed Penelope. ‘Miss Earle is a delightful creature and I quite dote on her already, but a little strange in her ways, do you not think? A certain gaucherie? I could not help but overhear what she said to you at supper. To remark on the colour of a gentleman’s hair! I declare I was shocked. But she has been badly brought up perhaps.’

The marquess should have agreed because he did feel that Miss Earle was regrettably outspoken, but some imp of perversity prompted him to say, ‘I find her inoffensive and much to be pitied. Miss Pym assures me she is an heiress. I can only think it reprehensible that her uncle and aunt found it necessary to subject her to the rigours of a stage-coach in winter.’

He studied the toes of his shoes while the Jordans
exchanged startled glances. This Belinda Earle must be sent on her way as soon as possible.

Belinda and Hannah made their way to Miss Wimple’s room. The physician, a Dr Patterson, was bending over the bed, shaving Miss Wimple’s head. Belinda let out a cry of alarm. ‘It is the necessary treatment for concussion,’ said the doctor, pausing in his work. ‘I shall then apply leeches to her head. After that, I shall apply this salve, which is made with half an ounce of sal ammoniac, two tablespoons of vinegar, and the same quantity of whisky in half a pint of water. Then Miss Wimple, should she show any signs of regaining consciousness, will be given a pill made from five grains of camomile and some quantity of antimonial powder with a little breadcrumb. Do not fear, ladies. I am persuaded Miss Wimple is of a strong constitution.’

The ladies edged out of the room, retreating backwards as if before royalty, so grand and imperious was Dr Patterson’s manner. Once back in their own sitting room, Belinda began to giggle. ‘Poor Miss Wimple. She will be outraged when she comes to her senses and finds she is as bald as a coot.’

Betty, the lady’s maid, entered, but Hannah dismissed her, saying they would make themselves ready for bed.

‘Rather high-handed of you,’ said Belinda crossly when Betty had left. ‘Now I shall have to untie the tapes of my gown myself and brush my own hair.’

‘You are quite able to brush your hair yourself, and
I shall help you with your gown. What if you were up the Amazon River or somewhere monstrous interesting like that? You could not expect a lady’s maid to be on hand.’

‘True, but if I and everyone else decided to do without lady’s maids, there would be a great number of unfortunate servants left unemployed.’

‘But I want to talk to you,’ said Hannah. ‘I
have
to talk to you.’

‘What about?’ demanded Belinda, stifling a yawn.

‘Have you noticed the Marquess of Fenton?’

‘Of course I have. A very kind host.’

‘He is a handsome man.’

Belinda scratched her head in an unladylike way. Then she laughed. ‘Why, Miss Pym, you are like all the rest. If a man has a title and a fortune, then of course he is handsome.’

‘I think you are both well suited,’ said Hannah.

‘My dear Miss Pym, your wits are addled with fatigue. The man must be in his thirties. He is very cold and austere. Did you mark the fine paintings, the
objets d’art
? That is what he loves. He will probably wed this Miss Jordan and add her to his collection.’

‘But he is fastidious, and she is not very clever, I think, and has no gentility of manner,’ said Hannah eagerly. ‘I tell you this because I was alarmed to hear the openness of your speech at supper. You must never tell him about the footman.’

‘Of course not. I am not such a widgeon. Ladies who run away with servants are always credited with
having vulgar and lustful passions. Probably the ladies were simply bored to tears.’

‘You may have the right of it,’ said Hannah sadly. ‘Poor Mrs Clarence.’

‘Who was Mrs Clarence?’

‘I shall be open with you. I am but lately risen to the ranks of gentility. For years I was a servant in the Clarence household at Thornton Hall in Kensington.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Belinda, brightening at the prospect of a story.

‘I was taken from the orphanage when I was very young and sent to Thornton Hall as a scullery maid. Mr and Mrs Clarence were newly-weds. I was very fortunate. The house was warm, and there was food to eat, which could not be said about the orphanage. It was a happy household. Most ladies never see the inside of their own kitchens, but not Mrs Clarence. She was so pretty and gay.’ Hannah sighed. ‘Mr Clarence was a good man but very withdrawn and morose. At first Mrs Clarence got her way and there were plenty of parties and balls and picnics, and occasionally we servants were allowed to go to the play. I worked very hard and became between-stairs maid, then housemaid, then first housemaid, and then my greatest ambition was realized, and I was made housekeeper. I was competent, but my work was not so arduous, and I had more time to realize that the Clarences were not happy. A few parties were still held, but Mr Clarence would cast gloom over every assembly. And then, one day, Mrs Clarence ran away with one of the footmen. It was a shock to us all. She
had not seemed to favour him overmuch. It was considered that passion had got the better of breeding, but now I wonder. I could see her beauty fading and her high spirits being worn down under her husband’s moodiness and disapproval. The footman was a happy young man, very cheerful and good-natured. But the world still thinks ill of Mrs Clarence and assumes she died soon after in disgrace. But she was a wealthy woman in her own right, so they would not starve. I would like to find her again and tell her that her husband is dead, and that she is free to marry, but I do not know where she can be found.

‘Mr Clarence died and left me a legacy. How I longed to be free to travel in those long years during which he became a recluse.’

‘Why did you stay?’ asked Belinda curiously.

‘I was loyal. I never managed to save much money. I ran the house my own way. I could perhaps have moved to a livelier household, but might have been badly treated by some new mistress. But as to your future, miss, would it not be better to be mistress of this grand castle and a marchioness than to go to Bath in disgrace?’

Belinda rose to her feet and stooped and dropped a kiss somewhere in the air above Hannah’s head. ‘Dear Miss Pym,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I shall endure my stay with Great-Aunt Harriet and dream of my future as a spinster. You need not help me to bed. I am not really such a spoilt brat that I cannot look after myself.’

Hannah took herself off to her own bedroom. She chided herself for having been too forward too soon.
Belinda obviously did not view the marquess with a loverlike eye and probably never would.

The marquess said good night to the Jordans and mounted the stairs. He decided to see how Miss Wimple was faring. He was startled at that lady’s shaven head, and then realized she had probably been leeched. The doctor was holding a glass to her lips, as she had just regained consciousness.

‘I am very pleased with our patient’s progress, my lord,’ said Dr Patterson.

‘I see she has recovered her senses.’ The marquess approached the bed. ‘You have finished leeching the lady’s head. It might be a good idea to tie a nightcap on her.’

‘Just about to do that,’ said the doctor. A maid appeared from the shadowy recesses of the bedroom, stooped over Miss Wimple and tied on a lacy nightcap, and then collected the empty glass from the doctor and left the room.

‘When will she be fit to travel?’ asked the marquess.

‘Hard to tell. A week. Two weeks. Of course, if these passengers weary you, they could be conveyed to the Queen Bess within, say, a couple of days. As you know, my lord, it is an excellent hostelry, not far from here, and our patient could be taken there lying in one of your carriages.’

‘We shall see,’ said the marquess. ‘You may retire for the night, Doctor. I shall wait with the patient until a servant arrives to watch over her. Ask the
housekeeper for a suitable maid. She herself has done her stint of duty at the bedside.’

The doctor left. Miss Wimple appeared to be trying to speak. The marquess drew even closer to the bed. ‘Belinda – Miss Earle?’ whispered Miss Wimple in a weak voice.

‘She is safe and well, madam. Your only concern is to regain your health.’

‘Wayward girl,’ said Miss Wimple in a stronger voice. ‘You are the Marquess of Frenton, Dr Patterson tells me.’

‘At your service, ma’am.’

‘My compliments to your wife, my lord.’

‘I am not married.’

‘Ah. You must, my lord, forgive my charge’s wayward ways. Running off with a footman indeed.’

Miss Wimple’s voice was becoming stronger by the minute.

‘Ran off with a footman, did she?’ asked the marquess.

‘Nothing came of it.’ Miss Wimple’s voice became suddenly weary. ‘A wicked, wicked girl, but even the footman did not want her.’ Her voice trailed away and her eyelids began to droop.

And having successfully demolished Belinda’s reputation in the eyes of the Marquess of Frenton, Miss Wimple folded her hands on her massive bosom and fell asleep.

4

Belinda awoke and for a short moment did not know where she was. Then recollection came flooding back. She was in Baddell Castle, a guest of the Marquess of Frenton. She thought with amusement about Miss Pym’s ambitions for her. Almost as bad as Aunt and Uncle, reflected Belinda. How they would disgrace themselves were they both here, primping me and pushing me forward.

Her stomach gave an unladylike rumble. She wondered whether she could expect breakfast or if the marquess kept London hours and rose about two in the afternoon. Her stomach rumbled again and she
threw back the covers, climbed down from the high bed, pulled on a wrapper, and went in search of Miss Pym. That lady’s bed was empty, so Belinda decided to dress and go downstairs.

She rang the bell to summon the lady’s maid and spent an enjoyable half-hour choosing an ensemble. Belinda had had little interest in clothes in London and would not admit to herself that this sudden desire to be fashionably gowned was to compete with Penelope Jordan.

She chose a cambric muslin gown, white with a small blue velvet spot and with a pelisse of blue silk trimmed with fur to wear over it. For her head, she selected the newest style in caps, a confection of muslin with the same blue velvet spot as her gown. Olive-green stockings, the very latest colour, were chosen as they, or rather one of them, would be seen, fashion demanding that any
elegante
should loop her gown over one arm to show one leg almost to the knee.

Betty, the maid, heated the curling tongs and arranged Belinda’s hair in a simple but flattering style before putting the froth of a cap on top of it.

On leaving the warmth of the bedroom where the fire had been burning brightly, Belinda was struck by the chill of the corridor. Through a mullioned window she could see snow falling steadily on the battlements. Both portcullises were lowered. It was amazing that they were still in use. Obviously the marquess did not expect or did not desire any further visitors.

She hesitated at the top of the main staircase and looked about for a servant to guide her to the
breakfast room. She began to wonder if breakfast was being served at all. It was only eight in the morning, and a disgracefully unfashionable hour for any lady to be up and about. But Betty had made no comment, and surely the maid would have said something.

Then she saw a footman ascending the staircase and went down to meet him. To her query, he inclined his powdered head and said, ‘Follow me, miss.’ He led the way down to the first landing and then along a passage and threw open the door of a room.

To Belinda’s relief, the sideboard was laden with dishes. She sat down at a small mahogany table. The butler came in carrying a tray with pots of coffee, tea and hot chocolate, but asked her if she would prefer beer. Belinda asked for tea and then chose kidneys, bacon, egg and toast. She marvelled at the efficiency of the marquess’s staff, who could produce all this food so quickly, but no sooner had she begun to eat than the door opened and the marquess came in. Breakfast had been prepared for him, and he had not expected any of his guests to be up so early, for he looked at her in surprise.

He had obviously come in from riding, for he was wearing top-boots, leather breeches, a black coat, and a ruffled shirt. His hair was unpowdered and was indeed very red, a rich dark red, worn long, and confined at the nape of his neck with a black silk ribbon. He looked somehow more formidable than he had in evening dress.

He sat down at the table and ordered cold pheasant and small beer.

He said a polite good-morning. Belinda replied shyly and then he began to eat. Belinda had often heard it said that gentlemen were averse to conversation at the breakfast table, and so she ate in steady silence. She finally looked across at him, her eyes widening slightly, for he was staring at her in a way she could not fathom. It was a hard, calculating, almost predatory stare, the distillation of a long line of aristocrats who took what they wanted.

Belinda flushed slightly and looked down at her plate.

To the marquess, Belinda had become suddenly available. Any young woman who ran off with a footman could hardly be a virgin. She was not beautiful, but that mouth of hers was definitely disturbing.

‘Where is Miss Pym?’ asked Belinda, feeling the silence must be broken.

‘I found her exploring the barbican and demanding to see the old torture chamber. What an indefatigable lady she is.’

‘Why do you keep such a thing as a torture chamber?’ demanded Belinda.

‘For historical interest. I do not torture anyone, I assure you. There is also the dungeon, one of the towers which is said to be haunted …’

‘By whom?’

‘By the ghost of a Miss Dalrymple, a Scotch lady, governess to the children of the second earl. It was said the second earl was too interested in the lady, and so Miss Dalrymple was found murdered in the top
room of the tower. Rumour had it that the countess had stabbed her to death. Another rumour had it she had rejected the advances of his lordship’s
valet de
chambre.
’

‘And have you seen this ghost?’ asked Belinda.

‘I have not the necessary sensibility to see ghosts, Miss Earle.’ His eyes teased her. ‘Would you like me to show you the tower?’

‘Yes, my lord, and perhaps Miss Pym would like to come as well.’

‘But I do not know where Miss Pym is at present,’ replied the marquess, ignoring the fact that he had only to summon his servants and ask them to look for her. ‘We shall go now, as you have finished your breakfast.’

Belinda nodded and rose but she felt uneasy. The marquess, although his manner towards her had not particularly changed, seemed to exude a strong air of sexuality. She glanced uneasily at his flaming hair and wondered if he had a temper to match.

Hannah Pym saw them enter the courtyard together and withdrew behind a buttress. She had no wish to intrude. The marquess appeared to be chatting amiably to Belinda. She was pleased to note that Belinda was keeping quiet and obviously not treating the marquess to any of her frank disclosures of the night before. It was as well Hannah could not hear their conversation.

‘None of the rooms in the walls are used now,’ the marquess was saying. ‘As I explained, they are merely kept in order for historical interest. Would you like to
see the torture chamber first? We have a very fine rack.’

‘No, I thank you,’ said Belinda with a shudder, blissfully unaware that she was the first lady who had not demanded enthusiastically to see it. ‘I am not the type of lady who enjoys public hangings, nor do I get a thrill from viewing antique instruments of torture. Nor do I see medieval castles as symbols of an age of chivalry and glory, but instead relics of an age of oppression.’

The curtain walls of the castle that enclosed the castle houses had four massive towers. There was a gatehouse and barbican, chapel, dungeon and torture chamber. The castle houses where the marquess lived were set in the courtyard inside the walls, rather like the buildings of Oxford College.

The marquess led the way to the tallest of the towers. Snow was falling gently, and Belinda shivered with cold. She was wearing heelless silk slippers, considered
de rigueur
for the fashionable lady, and she could feel the damp from the snow seeping through their thin soles.

‘This is Robert’s Tower,’ said the marquess. ‘Robert, Earl of Jesper, built it with the prize money he gained at Poitiers. They were great fighters, the Jespers, and when they weren’t going on Crusades, or fighting the wars of various kings, they were claiming to find infidels on the Welsh and Scotch borders and murdering them as well in the name of Christianity. There are five storeys in the tower: a dungeon, three vaulted chambers, and an upper guard chamber with a store-room underneath.’

He stood back to let Belinda mount first. Suddenly self-conscious, she dropped the skirt of her gown instead of looping it over her arm to show that one leg.

She paused on the first landing until he joined her. He pushed open the door. Belinda entered.

She found herself in a large chamber, vaulted in two bays, and lit on two sides by tall, single-light ogee windows. Two grooms were sitting by the fire and rose at their entrance.

The marquess waited patiently while Belinda looked quickly around. The remains of breakfast lay on a deal table.

Then she walked out of the room. The marquess followed her and closed the door behind them.

‘I thought you said the rooms were unoccupied,’ whispered Belinda.

‘They are,’ said the marquess, surprised. ‘They are only used by the outdoor servants.’

‘And are not servants people?’

‘My radical Miss Earle, when I said they were no longer used, I meant by either myself or my guests.’

‘You are reputed to be a recluse.’

‘Not I. Merely fastidious.’

Belinda climbed up the next flight of stairs. ‘Now this,’ said the marquess, joining her on the landing, ‘is the haunted chamber.’

He was interested to see Belinda’s reaction. In an age when gothic novels were in vogue, most young ladies, on being shown the tower room, would pretend to have seen the ghost; a few took the opportunity to faint into the marriageable marquess’s
arms. The thing about this Miss Earle, thought the marquess, was that although she was by no means beautiful, he found her large eyes and that passionate mouth immensely attractive. And her directness was refreshing. It was not a pity she was Haymarket ware; it was a definite asset as his intentions were rapidly becoming dishonourable.

Belinda stood in the middle of the room and looked slowly around. This room was not even used by the servants. It was bleak and cold, with the wind howling mournfully in the chimney.

‘Was this Miss Dalrymple’s room?’ asked Belinda.

The marquess nodded.

There was a small chamber off the main room, a garderobe, a medieval lavatory with a stone seat over a hole, which gave a clear view downwards of the former moat, now drained. She returned to the main room, which had a scrubbed table and two massive carved chairs.

Perhaps it had not been so grim when the unfortunate governess was in residence, thought Belinda. She would surely have had some of her own possessions about her.

‘I did not think they had governesses in medieval times,’ said Belinda.

The marquess shrugged. He was disappointed in Belinda’s lack of reaction. ‘She was not called a governess. She was merely a female of fairly good birth who was there to educate the very young children. Do you sense her presence?’

Belinda shook her head. ‘I sense desolation, that is all. What a cruel time to live!’

‘I sometimes think no more cruel than our own,’ said the marquess. ‘Look from the window.’

Belinda looked out. The snow had stopped falling. Far down below, beyond the castle walls and the fields and farms and cottages, was a crossroads. And at that crossroads stood a gibbet with three rotting bodies hanging in the wind.

She shivered. ‘But that is the justice of the English courts,’ she said, half to herself.

‘I envy you your belief in the fairness of English justice,’ he said. ‘One of those hanged was a half-starved youth of sixteen. He stole a sheep. The other two are murderers, and yet he met the same fate. But we become too serious. Would you like to climb to the roof of the tower?’

Belinda replied reluctantly that she would. She felt she had been discourteous in not admiring this part of the castle enough and was trying to make up for it.

They climbed higher and higher until they came to a low door that led out on to the roof of the tower.

‘Go to the right,’ said the marquess. ‘You will obtain a good view of the castle buildings and the gardens.’

Belinda did as she was bid. She clutched the parapet and looked down at the jumble of chimneys on the roofs of the castle buildings, at the formal gardens behind them, buried in snow. The wind rose suddenly and she drew back, stepped on a pebble and gave her sprained ankle a savage wrench.

She let out a moan of pain. The marquess caught her round the waist and supported her. ‘Your ankle,’
he exclaimed. ‘I had forgot. I should never have let you walk for so long on it. Allow me to carry you.’

Belinda protested feebly but he lifted her up easily in his arms and made for the staircase. ‘Hold tightly around my neck,’ he commanded. ‘The stairs are narrow.’

Her heart began to thud painfully and she found it hard to breathe. He was holding her so very tightly and the feel of the hardness of his body against hers was doing bewildering things to her senses.

The marquess reached the bottom of the staircase. It was very dark there. Before he opened the door, he looked down at her and met a wide-eyed gaze. On impulse, he bent his head and kissed her on the lips. It was the first kiss Belinda had ever received and she thought dizzily that it was wickedly delicious, rather like one’s first ice cream.