Mattie hardly knew how to reply to such an ungenerous speech, but Lady Repton's other neighbour faced her with more courage.
"Pooh!" Mrs. Dempling said across her. "Likely the girl is more particular than most, which she has every right to be." Mrs. Dempling was a kindly woman, prettily plump in spite of her greying hair, which led Mattie to believe she had had a fair share of suitors in her day.
"No, you are mistaken," Lady Repton pronounced. "Her mother confided her circumstances to me. The girl has received not even one proposal."
"A fine thing for her mother to put about! Tell the world that she's getting desperate? Might as well hold an ax over the girl's head. Clearly, she's so nervous, they've nearly chased the life out of the child."
"Child?" Lady Repton insisted upon having the last word. "One could hardly call her a child. Why, by her age, I was married and had six children."
Poor dears, Mattie thought to herself. She noted Mrs. Dempling's shrewd expression and fancied a similar thought had run through her mind. Mrs. Dempling's eye met Mattie's across her ladyship's boney chest, and she winked.
"Well," Mrs. Dempling said, scanning the dance floor and changing the subject of their dissection. "She has a superior partner in Mr. Warrenton."
Lady Repton sniffed. "A widower, saddled with three troublesome children, or so I have heard them described. Hardly a prize catch in my book."
Mattie and Mrs. Dempling exchanged another look. A dimple peeking out from the other woman's cheek nearly caused Mattie to break into a giggle, so she turned away before lapsing into subdued silence.
When no one responded to her last remark, Lady Repton cast a glance Pamela's way and demanded to know, "Will your daughter be dancing this evening, Your Grace?"
"I think not," Mattie said, fearful of what Lady Repton might say if Pamela did. "She is not yet out."
Her ladyship permitted herself a tight, approving smile. "I applaud your restraint, which, alas, in these days, is so seldom seen. But, of course, girls with dowries the size of Lady Pamela's rarely need help in finding adequate dance partners. It is the parents with so little with which to endow who feel they must push their daughters upon the world."
Her maternal instincts aroused, Mattie turned to Pamela to see how she had borne this rude comment, but Pamela did not seem to have heard it. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, scanning the room for new arrivals.
Since receiving a visit from Gerald that afternoon, Pamela had completely recovered from her indisposition and had looked forward to tonight's entertainment with barely concealed excitement. She had even submitted to the crimping of her curls with little protest. Mattie was too relieved to see her daughter in high spirits to question too deeply the cause of such a rapid recovery. Pamela's heightened colour had all the welcome look of good health.
Mattie, herself, had not been at home when Gerald called, apparently without William. She had been sitting in Number 29, The King's Circus, consulting with an eminent physician, Fellow of the Royal Society, and Member of the Royal College of Physicians.
The elegant Dr. Falconer had asked for several details about her symptoms, and Mattie was glad she had taken the trouble to provide herself with a list: lowness of spirit; loss of appetite— She had tried to think of others, but in the end had shied away from most. Claims of stomach-ache, which would be grossly untrue, might lead to too close an examination. Having never been ill, aside from an occasional cold, she was not certain just what a doctor did in more particular cases, and she certainly did not want to invite a search that might uncover her deceit.
Consequently, she played it safe by describing her general symptoms since William's arrival in Bath. And, if the doctor peered at her a bit strangely when nothing more serious was forthcoming than a deplorable tendency to stare morosely into thin air, at least he never accused her of making false claims. He prescribed a modest cure, of which a change in regime seemed the principal ingredient, and— she was particularly grateful for this part— no more than two dippers of the waters per day.
Now that her "illness" had been certified by a physician, Mattie hoped William would see that she indeed was suffering from the complaints of advanced age. He had not yet made an appearance tonight, but Mattie was certain Pamela would alert her to his arrival in time to compose herself.
Lady Repton's insistence upon sitting next to her had taken Mattie by surprise. She had not expected to be acknowledged by such a haughty member of the Ton. But Lady Repton proved to be a virtual encyclopedia when it came to family connections and claimed to have a distant relative who had married into Mattie's own family.
"You were a Delacorte, were you not, before marrying the duke?" Lady Repton had asked soon after taking her chair.
"Yes. My father was Sir Geoffrey Delacorte."
Lady Repton inclined her head, as if Mattie had confirmed one of her most profoundly-held notions. "My mother's great-uncle," she supplied, with an air of great wisdom, "had a first cousin who married into that branch of the Delacortes. She would have been your grandfather's great-aunt. A most distinguished woman. Perhaps you heard your parents speak of her?"
"No, I am afraid I did not." Mattie was sure that Lady Repton would consider it a great fault in her not to have heard of such an august personage. "But, you see, they both died when I was young." She shrank inwardly, waiting for her inquisitor to recall the circumstance of her marriage.
But Lady Repton, as poisonous as her mind could be upon certain topics, only replied, "Yes, I remember the story now. A boating accident, was it not?"
"Yes."
"I remember that my father read us the article about it when it occurred. The same piece mentioned that you had gone to live as His Grace's ward, and I remember my dear mother saying that you were fortunate indeed to have such a distinguished guardian."
"Fortunate indeed!" Mrs. Dempling had bristled at the words. "To have lost her parents in such a way! And so suddenly! Why, poor child, you must have been dreadfully unhappy."
"Yes, I was for a while," Mattie had replied, smiling gratefully to her. "But His Grace was very kind to me, and in time, I grew accustomed to being an orphan."
Lady Repton had fallen silent then, but Mattie read nothing upon her face except a certain envy.
As misplaced as this was, Mattie immediately felt an easing in her chest. It was as if the burden of years had just been lifted, leaving her free to breathe deeply at last, for no censorious thoughts had accompanied Lady Repton's envy.
Everywhere Mattie had been since her arrival in Bath, she had been welcomed as if no scandal had ever attached itself to her name. People had been curious, perhaps, but that was natural with any newcomer. And how much more would they be with a duchess who had never appeared among them. Mattie had moved in society for a week and received nothing but attentiveness and kindness. Her fears of a lifetime had been groundless.
And here was Lady Repton, surely a stickler of the worst sort, rising and asking Mattie whether she would care to repair with her to the card room.
"No, thank you," Mattie said with a perfectly clear conscience, although the thought of spending an evening playing cards with her ladyship made her toes go cold. "I am certain that Pamela would prefer to watch the dancers, and I must stay near her."
Lady Repton smiled that tight little smile again. "So refreshing to meet a mother besides myself who observes all the proprieties. You will be glad for your sacrifice when you see your daughter's name held up as a model to others in future years." She curtsied her farewell. "I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you, Duchess, to give you the benefit of my own experience as a parent."
Mattie thanked her, hoping desperately to be out when Lady Repton called, and nearly sighed out loud when she departed. Lady Repton had no sooner left the row of chairs than Mrs. Dempling scooted over to take the vacant place.
"Now we may be more comfortable," she said, settling into her new seat. "I have never liked that woman, if you will forgive my saying so."
Astonished by such candour, Mattie could only stammer, "Of course. I'm afraid— that is, I must admit that I found her conversation to be a bit tedious, if that is what you mean."
"Tedious?" Mrs. Dempling chuckled. "My dear, you are far too charitable. I can see it in your lovely face. Mean-spirited, I would sooner call her. But I'll leave off at the risk of sounding too much like her.
"How are you settling into Bath?" she asked.
Mattie was about to reply when Pamela goaded her with one elbow and made her jump.
"There's Gerald," Pamela whispered, and her face turned a deep, healthy rose which would have soothed the worst of Mattie's maternal concerns, if she were not anticipating William's arrival as well.
William had already entered the room, she saw, as she followed Pamela's glance. Interrupted in their chat, Mrs. Dempling followed it, too, and lit upon Gerald.
"Is that Lord Westbury's brother?" she asked. "I heard those two gentlemen were in town, but I could not imagine why. Is one of them ailing, do you suppose?"
Mattie feigned not to know, but she could feel the butterflies dancing in her stomach. "I have just made the gentlemen's acquaintance," she lied, forced to by William's idiotic charade. After Sir Reginald's resounding introduction in the Pump-room, she could not very well admit to an earlier familiarity without making everyone wonder about the cause for his deception.
Pamela must have heard Mattie's speech, for she threw her mother a bewildered glance. Fortunately, Gerald had seen the two of them and was making his way towards them.
"Hullo, Lady Pam, Your Grace." His casual attitude, even accompanied by a bow as it was, raised Mrs. Dempling's eyebrows.
"Good evening, Gerald." Mattie knew it was useless to pretend that Gerald was a stranger to either of them, especially without her daughter's complicity. And she could not ask for that, not without awakening Pamela's suspicions.
Confound William! she thought, for putting her in this most uncomfortable position. She had enough to worry her, what with all these new experiences, without having to manage that lie, too.
She explained to Mrs. Dempling that Westbury Manor, where she and Pamela had recently moved, abutted the country seat of Lord Westbury, and, consequently, that the two young people had made friends. Mrs. Dempling accepted this as Mattie had hoped she would, with the implication that Lord Westbury, himself, was still a relative stranger to them. Everyone seemed to know that William spent the greater part of his time in London, which made Mattie wonder what he had done to make his movements so well-known.
"Care to dance, Lady Pam." Gerald offered his arm with a conspiratorial grin which made Pamela blush and giggle.
Mattie intervened. "That is very kind of you, Gerald, but I am afraid that Pamela must not dance this evening, since she has not been brought out."
She felt a gentle nudge in the ribs. "Oh, go on, Your Grace." Mrs. Dempling smiled benevolently upon the young people and said, "What would be the harm in it? We are far from London, you know. Don't let that long-faced sourpuss spoil everyone's fun. She will try, you know."
"But I can't— " Mattie was in a quandary. She had already said that Pamela would not dance, and if she changed her mind, Lady Repton would surely be offended. At the same time, she had to agree with Mrs. Dempling that no harm could come of their dancing.
"That's quite all right, Your Grace," Gerald said, not in the least disturbed. "Lady Pam and I can wander about the room instead. We've got plans to make about our ride tomorrow. I want to show her a stud I promised she could see, and in the dance we would be interrupted again and again.
"All right by you, Lady Pam?" he asked.
Pamela gave her ready consent. Mattie knew that neither of them was addicted to dancing and would be just as happy sitting in a corner, discussing their outing. Pamela rose, bobbed a curtsy to Mrs. Dempling, and the two made off, arm in arm towards the refreshment tables.
"You will think it quite rude of me to say this," Mrs. Dempling whispered after them," but I think there will be a match there someday."
Mattie turned to her, shock raising her voice an octave. "Oh, no," she protested. "Gerald is simply a friend of Pamela's. Quite a good friend, as it happens, but— "
Mrs. Dempling's knowing smile caused her to look inside herself. What Mattie saw there made her stop in mid-thought.
Pamela's strange behaviour, her glumness, her want of energy— all these things had mocked Mattie's own behaviour. What if Pamela were losing her heart to Gerald?
Anxiety had no sooner started its grip on her, than a strangely warm feeling stole into Mattie's chest, bringing tears into her eyes. Gerald was a darling boy. He truly cared about Pamela, and they shared so many interests.
At once, Mattie saw that her daughter could do no better than to choose a gentleman like him.
Pamela was young, of course, and she would have to complete a season in London first. Gerald, himself, had some growing-up to do, his studies to finish. And yet, he seemed to have matured considerably just since they had met him.
These reflections, and thoughts of her own stupidity, occupied Mattie's mind for a long moment, so that she was surprised to see William suddenly in front of her.
She looked up to find his dark gaze warming her, his subtle smile— no more than a slight lightening of his features— working its magic to give her heart a jolt.
He was accompanied by Mr. King.
After the gentlemen had bowed to both ladies, and Mr. King had presented William to Mattie's companion, the Master of the Ceremonies said with an arch look, "Your Grace, I have attempted to find this gentleman a partner, but Lord Westbury insists there is but one lady here tonight whom he cares to stand up with."
Mrs. Dempling gave a deep chuckle, and Mattie, whose cheeks had begun to heat, started to fan herself in rapid time. "Oh. . . indeed!" she said, trying to catch her breath.