This lengthy monologue at last drew a reluctant grin from his younger sibling. "Oh, very well," Gerald said, "though for pitching me so much gammon, I ought to wish you to the devil!"
His glance wandered to the floor, then to the hands in his lap, before he said in a mumble, "It's only that Lady Pam left home this morning— which wouldn't concern me in the least," he stressed, "only that we had planned a really capital ride, and then I was going to show her some drawings I'd made for her new stables, and since I'd mentioned only yesterday that I meant to do so, she might have told me that she planned to go. Don't you think?"
"Perhaps," William conceded, admirably concealing his amusement. He studied his fingernails. "It is always possible, however, that Lady Pamela did not anticipate her journey."
"Do you think so?" Gerald's eyes flew to William's face. "That's what I would have said, because she always acts so square with me. But— " he frowned— "don't you think it is rather odd of her mother to set out on a three-day journey— for do not think for a minute that John Coachman can make it in two— to set out like that without so much as a warning?"
"It does seem rather sudden."
When William appeared uncommunicative, disappointment gathered like a cloud over Gerald's features. He waited for his brother to speak, then shifted restlessly in his chair.
"I say, Will," he ventured after what seemed a considerable time, "you don't think Her Grace has any objection to my seeing Lady Pam so much?"
William heard the worry in his brother's voice and smiled. "You mean, does she think you plan to make off with her daughter, so she spirited her away?"
Gerald squirmed in his chair. "Nothing like that, no. At least— " he scoffed— "Lord, no, I hope not. It's only that I have been spending a great deal of time with her. And I might as well tell you that her groom doesn't always keep up with us— you know he's old, and we can't be expected to ride at a snail's pace, for Lord's sake! But— " he stammered— "I started thinking that Her Grace might have got wind of it, and she might have worried that Pam— that Lady Pam was getting to be of an age when perhaps she ought not to go around unescorted. Not that I would ever do anything to hurt Pam!" he added ingenuously. "And, anyway, she might have got worked up about it— quite beyond reason, mind you— and decided to take her away?"
William moved to put his brother at ease. "No need to worry, brat. I have a feeling that the duchess's mind has been on quite different matters. If she has given any thought to Lady Pamela and you, I suspect it has been very slight."
Relief washed over Gerald's face. "I don't see how you could know, but I hope you are right."
"Trust me," William said, hiding a smile. "I take it that you and Lady Pamela are thick as thieves? And here I thought you had a low opinion of females."
Gerald grinned and tried not to flush again, but the colour had already begun creeping up his neck. "Well, she is a different sort of girl . . . ."
"Precisely what I told you from the first, if you recall," William said. Then, seeing how greatly his brother was discomfited, he dropped the point and asked instead, "I do not suppose you were told where she was going?"
"No, not at first. But I managed to wring it out of Tim
— her groom, you know." Gerald's look of determination was followed by one of pure disgust. "You will think I am trying to humbug you, Will, but would you believe it? Pam's mother has dragged her to Bath!"
William laughed in a sudden burst of delight, which was only due in part to his brother's face. "Of course, I believe it. Where else would Mattie go, but the one place she could be guaranteed to be surrounded by octogenarians?" He leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the mental picture this occasioned.
After a moment, seeing that Gerald was looking blue again, he offered, "How would you like to join me on a trip?"
Gerald only brightened slightly. "A trip? To where?"
"To Bath, of course. What other place have we been discussing?"
"To Bath? You and me?" A ludicrous aspect, part pleasure, part bewilderment, came over Gerald's face. "But you just said— You know, Will, Bath is devilish flat."
"So it is said. But perhaps it only needs a little stirring up. Shall we go?"
Doubt clouded Gerald's gaze. "I don't know . . . . What'll we do for sport?"
"I have my own prey in mind, but I daresay you and Lady Pam will find a ride or two worthy of your consideration."
"Will you let me take Jupiter?" Gerald asked, scooting to the edge of his seat. "And another mount for Pam? You must know how she despises hacks."
"You may take whichever horses you want, although not the entire stable, I beg of you. I might have need of them myself one day."
"Ah, Will, don't be such a ninny-hammer." Gerald's eyes might have lighted the stage at Covent Garden. "But now that I think about it, I know there is one stud worth seeing that's not too far from Bath. And I could take my drawings to show Pam."
"That's the spirit. I shall inform the servants directly, if you would be so kind as to take the message to our mother." William reached for the bell. "And by the way, you might omit to mention that we expect to see our neighbours there."
Gerald grinned as he leapt to his feet. "I might be a dunderhead, but I'm not so green as that!"
"Are you not?" His brother smiled after him. "Then I can see that Lady Pamela has exerted a most beneficial effect, indeed."
After Gerald had left, William pondered for a moment, realizing that he could not have planned a more fortunate change in circumstance. Mattie had fled, but what she had fled to was exactly what she needed to show her the brevity of the world's memory and the fickleness of society.
William had planned to prove to her that he could protect her from the worst of society's arrows. He had thought he could persuade her to marry him eventually, and had envisioned with eagerness the form that persuasion would take. But how much better it would be, he told himself now, if Mattie could learn for herself the futility of seeking approval from persons whose one pleasure in life was to destroy the happiness of others.
His Mattie would need the freedom to learn those lessons which ought to have been mastered at an earlier age. William could exercise patience, even though the urge to hold her almost overpowered him at times. He would go to Bath to oversee her tutoring and take the pleasure of watching his English rose unfurl her soft petals, making sure, of course, to be ready when the moment came to catch them up.
* * * *
If Gerald could have witnessed Pamela's journey to Bath, he would have seen that the aspersions he had cast upon her driver were fully justified. Even Mattie, who was used to moving at a snail's pace grew frustrated with their progress.
"Do you think we might urge the horses to go a little faster?" she asked John Coachman on the second day of their journey, when it seemed as if they might never arrive.
She was rewarded with a scowl. "Ye never told me ye was in no hurry, Miss Mattie." John Coachman bristled with her interference.
"It is not that I am in a hurry— " Mattie hastened to soothe his feelings— "for I most assuredly am not. It is just that we seem to be moving a touch more slowly than our custom, and I thought that perhaps the horses might be persuaded to step up their pace a little."
"If there's no need to spring 'em, and I guess ye've growed used to such fancy goers that ye don't rightly recall the proper pace for a lady, then ye'd best let me go about my work the way I knows it best."
"Of course, you must. And, of course, there is no need to spring them. Why ever would there be? I have no need to hurry." Mattie decided to give up trying. She could tell by John's expression that her suggestion would have the reverse effect of what she had desired. Now, she would be lucky indeed to make Bath in only three days. Insisting upon speed would only put up his hackles to the point that he might stop for a few days to nurse some imagined injury to one of the horses' legs.
In the shadows of her mind was an image of William, riding after them and forcing her to return to face his mother. Mattie could not forget the determined look that had settled upon his face. She could only imagine what he would do when he learned of her sudden departure, but she had instructed Barlow to withhold her destination from him.
Knowing how arrogant William could be, how competent and beautifully masterful, she had no illusions of having bought herself much time. But Coachman would drive so slowly!
Now that Mattie had interfered, he took twice as long to climb back onto the box. And his "herrup" was so dispirited that at first the horses could not even hear it, and Mattie was obliged to bite her tongue until he flicked their backs with the reins.
At last their procession was underway. In her whole life, Mattie had never been in such a hurry. She wanted to hide herself among the townspeople of Bath, and for once, felt no fright at the prospect.
It would be much worse, far much worse to face her neighbours, particularly Lady Westbury, with the announcement that William had proposed.
By carefully shielding her impatience, Mattie had hoped to overcome her setback with John, but if she was chafed by their slowness, her daughter was in torture. More than once, Pamela expressed so much frustration that she actually begged her mother to let her drive them herself.
"Nonsense, my dear," Mattie finally chided her. "You know very well you can do no such thing. If you will not think of Coachman's feelings, think of your own reputation if it were to leak out that you had shoved your servant aside to do his job."
Pamela was sulking in the corner of the carriage, which was not at all like her. "If we do have to go to Bath, we might as well get there."
"Don't you want to go, dearest?" Concern chased other thoughts from Mattie's head. She had been so possessed by worries of her own, she had failed to notice Pamela's reluctance but now she could not miss it. "Are you worried about being in an unfamiliar place? Among a new set of people?"
Pamela stared at her mother as if she had suddenly spouted Greek. "What?"
Mattie coloured. "It is only that if you have such fears, I am sure they are quite natural, but you mustn't let them come to dominate you. I feel quite certain that we will be welcomed in Bath. You must not forget that Cosmo is there. He will have friends he can present to us, and some of them will surely have children your age. You must not let their newness frighten you."
"Oh. That." With this puzzling response, Pamela settled back in her corner and stared unhappily out the window.
For the rest of the trip, Mattie did her best to squelch Pamela's irritation, with the result that John Coachman brought them to Bath at last. He pulled up the horses in front of the duke's impressive residence on the Royal Crescent.
Shuttered windows and a door from which the knocker had been removed greeted their eyes.
With a sinking heart, Mattie asked John Coachman to rouse the house, but the result was predictable. The servant who answered expressed his regret, but said that the duke had gone into Wiltshire to visit a friend and would not be back for three weeks. He was certain His Grace would wish for beds to be made up for his visitors at once, if they would wish to come inside, but he warned them that the staff had been given a holiday so they might not find things exactly as they wished.
Mattie's heart filled with dismay. She hardly knew what to say, she was so dumbfounded, but she could not bring herself to impose on the few of Cosmo's servants who remained.
"I thought you said Uncle Cosmo would be here?" Pamela asked. Her tone was surprisingly indifferent for one who must have been feeling anxious about the trip.
"I thought he would be. He said he was just on his way back when he spent the evening at Westbury Manor, and I never thought he would leave again so soon. . . ." Mattie's heart was fluttering, but she knew she must not let her own trepidation raise fears in her daughter's breast.
"Well," she said purposefully, as if this sort of setback occurred daily in her life, "we shall just have to put up at an inn. Then, perhaps we can find lodgings of our own. In fact, I am sure we can."
But she was not so certain. Mattie had left Westbury Manor with no other plan in mind than to flee William's notice and the rumours that were sure to abound when Mrs. Puckeridge spread her gossip. She had not brought her dresser, for Turner could not be expected to make such a long journey at her age. And, naturally, presuming that she would find Cosmo at home, she had left all her other servants behind. She could not possibly set up house without them.
There would be nothing for it. They would have to return with their tails between their legs and another failure added to her other shames, but for the moment, everyone was tired and they must have a decent night's sleep.
She told John Coachman to drive them to an inn, hoping that his memory could dredge up a place of lodging that would still be standing after so many years.
To her infinite gratitude, he did. The White Lion in Market Place, where His Grace had been used to stay as a younger man, was not only standing, but bustling with activity, and although it did not have the air of being the first in its class, it appeared much more than respectable.
Mattie worried that the bustle might be a signal that the rooms had all been taken, but the innkeeper, upon seeing a dignified carriage entering his gate, hurried to welcome them. A word from John Coachman as to who his passengers were, and the man was all bows.
"It's the Catch Club, Your Grace," he explained, letting down the step for her. "They meets here during the winter, and some of the gentlemen likes to sit in my tap-room the whole year 'round. I hope their singing won't disturb you."
He seemed so anxious to please that Mattie felt her flutterings die away. She smiled and assured Mr. Arnold that she would greatly enjoy the sound of voices raised in an occasional glee.
It was the truth. Mattie could not be quite so anxious when such avid propounders of musical science were filling the rooms with harmony. And inside, the White Lion proved to be quite elegant.