4
The ton no longer considered Bath quite as modish a resort as it had the century prior, and in recent years the city had become patronized more by the elderly, the unwell and the shabby genteel than the wealthy and the fashionable. To Eliza, however, it was quite the most splendid city she had ever seen. The whole town seemed to have been designed with elegance in mind: its grand amphitheatric crescents and beautifully spacious squares were all constructed in the same pale stone that, on a bright day, refreshed the eye with its shine. Surrounded by the lofty hills of the Claverton, the countryside was close enough that the air remained sweet, while the town itself was generously endowed with gardens, shops, libraries, and two impressive Assembly Rooms. It was a city that presented, in short, a breathtaking array of possibility for two women who were, for the very first moment in their lives, wholly in charge of their own time.
They eased their way quietly into Bath society that first week, and while Eliza wrote both her and Margaret’s name in the subscription books of the Lower and the New Assembly Rooms, it was more out of courtesy to the Masters of Ceremonies than out of any real intention of availing themselves greatly of their entertainments. With Eliza almost ten months into her mourning, the strictest days of her seclusion—when she had to avoid all public society in its entirety—were already behind her, but the Countess of Somerset’s arrival into town in full widow’s regalia was still unusual enough to attract attention. With so many eyes upon her, she needed to remain above censure: Eliza could visit the Pump Room, peruse the shops of Milsom Street, quietly attend a concert or two and even host a few, very select, dinners—but until a year and a day had passed since the earl’s death she could not attend large parties, or assemblies, nor display herself in too public a setting. Dancing, of course, was strictly forbidden for another whole six months after that. Mourning, for a lady of the first consideration, was a serious business.
With propriety at the forefront of their minds, therefore, Eliza and Margaret were conscious of conveying, as much as the reserve of good manners allowed, both Eliza’s sorrow and frailty on their first excursions into Bath society. In this quest, Margaret’s quick mind and silver tongue proved indispensable, for while deception threw Eliza into quagmires of uncertainty, Margaret had no issue embellishing the truth beyond recognition.
“The shock has rendered her weak,” Margaret said in a hushed undertone to Lady Hurley, Bath’s most glamorous dowager, on their first visit to the Pump Room, while Eliza—heavily veiled—choked down a glassful of Bath’s famously healing (and foul-tasting) mineral waters.
“The doctor suggested an acute fluralgia,” she explained to both Masters of Ceremonies when they had each paid a call of ceremony to welcome the ladies to Bath.
“What is fluralgia?” Eliza asked Margaret, once they were alone.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Margaret said cheerfully. “But it sounded good, did it not?”
By the time Mr. Walcot, the Somerset lawyer, paid them a visit on the third day, Margaret had become so adept at explicating Eliza’s emotional and physical delicacy, that he looked quite about to think Eliza on death’s doorstep.
“Are you quite sure you are well enough, my lady, to manage your own affairs?” he asked, face alarmed. “I had thought your father . . .”
“Oh, I am feeling much improved already,” Eliza hastened to say. Mr. Balfour would undoubtedly be better positioned to oversee her lands, for he had all the experience and knowledge that she lacked, but . . . But it was the first time that Eliza had ever truly owned property by herself and she found that she did not want to give it away in any capacity just yet. “If you will be so kind as to recommend me a land steward, and assist me with a few questions . . . ?”
She trailed off, flushing.
“I am already serving the new Lord Somerset in much the same manner,” Mr. Walcot said reluctantly. “And there will be a great deal to learn, my lady. Are you sure you feel equal to such a task?”
Eliza gave Mr. Walcot a strained smile.
“I believe so,” she said, trying to sound firm.
“If you are sure . . .” Mr. Walcot appeared unconvinced. “The new earl would be a safe pair of hands to count upon, if you ever find yourself worried, and I do wonder that he did not mention your arrival in his last letter,” Mr. Walcot mused. “I should have called much sooner, had I known—but I’m sure his lordship had his reasons!”
That was certainly true, chief among them being that Eliza had still not written to him; her avoidance of the task was approaching the chronic.
“It is possible that my letter had not yet reached him,” she lied. “Our visit was only recently decided upon . . .”
“Due to the fluralgia,” Margaret put in helpfully. Mr. Walcot’s worried frown reappeared, and throughout the rest of the visit Eliza was at pains to convey the precise balance of “capable but grief-stricken” that would most effectively reassure him.
Under the cloak of grief, Eliza and Margaret’s first days in Bath were full, expensive, and thrilling. They made a complete exploration of all the Milsom Street shops: sampled scents at the parfumerie; feasted their eyes on the diamonds in Basnett the jeweler’s and lingered over the shelves of Meyler’s library. Here, they overheard a gaggle of twittering young ladies begging the harassed attendant for Lord Melville’s next volume of poetry.
“I read in the paper that it ought to have been published by now!” one lady declared in the face of the attendant’s denial.
“What would they say if they knew we had actually met him?” Margaret whispered in Eliza’s ear.
“Don’t!” Eliza said firmly and Margaret rolled her eyes.
A few doors down was Mr. Fasana’s Repository of Arts, whose shelves were full to the brim of beautiful materials—easels, palettes, paintbrushes from the width of a pin to a branch and boxes of watercolors in shades Eliza could not name—and whose shop assistants were so knowledgeable that Eliza became a little overwhelmed. She wanted to purchase half of the shop, but as this would certainly raise eyebrows, she settled merely upon an array of pencils, a box of watercolors and a volume entitled The Art of Painting that she could remember her grandfather owning.
“Do you . . . do you mix oils here, too?” she asked shyly at the counter. Her grandfather had mixed his own colors—a laborious process that involved grinding the natural pigments and combining them with various media to achieve the desired consistency—but oils could be bought directly from merchants, or colormen, too.
Mr. Fasana, who had been roused from the back room to serve the lofty customer, appeared surprised at the request. It was common for a lady to partake in watercolors, but oils were a medium rarely used by amateurs, due to the mess they incurred and the skill necessary to use them correctly. “I can certainly do so, though may I suggest that a set of pastels might serve better for her ladyship’s use?”
“Oh . . . yes,” Eliza said, wilting under Mr. Fasana’s disbelief, and the curious eyes of the other patrons. And, really, would not pastels do just as well? “Yes, thank you.”
Last was their trip to the modiste. Eliza and Margaret were both well used to visiting milliners: displaying oneself in an array of ever-changing gowns was a key tenet of any lady of quality’s life. Until now, however, their wardrobes had been ruled by the preferences of others: Eliza’s by her husband’s, who favored the old-fashioned style of gowns belonging to his generation, and Margaret’s by her mother’s, who believed that over-trimmed gowns in infantile pastels would gift Margaret eternal youth.
“I have resembled a trussed-up, over-puffed pie for years,” Margaret said loudly, entering Madame Prevette’s shop, and such was the state of their toilette that Madame Prevette clucked her tongue in agreement. In the blink of an eye, she had Eliza and Margaret standing upon dressing platforms in the back room, presenting fashion plates before them while her assistants flurried around them with yards of silk, crêpe and bombazine in every color imaginable, as if Eliza and Margaret were the center of a particularly fashionable hurricane.
They ran their hands over lace, muslin, cotton, gauze, and, under Madame Prevette’s beady, discerning eye, chose dresses for every occasion imaginable. Eliza, of course, must dress only in black until April, but to Madame Prevette—who had first fled to England in the wake of the revolution—this was the most trifling of challenges and much instead was made of the style and cut of each gown: figured and embroidered and flounced to add interest where color would normally serve. Margaret, only distantly related to the earl through marriage, was long out of her mourning clothes, and so was measured for morning dresses in blue and green, evening dresses of deepest purple and walking habits in severe, military shapes—all with hats and shawls and gloves to match.
“I can have the first dresses ready in a week,” Madame Prevette promised Eliza, when they had finally declared themselves finished, which was generously quick indeed and Eliza beamed her thanks. Looking around for Margaret, she saw her stroking a hand avariciously over a thick sable.
“Would you like it?” Eliza asked. The bill was already long and large.
“It is very dear,” Margaret said, which was not a denial. Eliza checked the price and felt her eyebrows rise of their own accord. An indecent expense, her husband would have said. But he wasn’t here. And it was for Eliza to decide, now, what expenses were worthwhile.
“We’ll have two,” Eliza said.
“They do say money cannot buy happiness,” Margaret said, unable to hide her wide, delighted grin as they left, their new footman following behind, laden with boxes.
“A theory I mean to test,” Eliza promised.
True to her word, Madame Prevette sent over the first box of dresses within a week, and so, by the second Wednesday after their arrival, Eliza and Margaret were finally ready for their first outing to a concert at the New Assembly Rooms—which they deemed perfectly proper as long as Eliza arrived unobtrusively, sat quietly during the interval, and left immediately afterward. Truthfully, even if it had not been perfectly proper, once Eliza had caught sight of her and Margaret’s reflections in their new evening gowns she would have been tempted to attend anyway.
Rationally, of course, Eliza knew that the application of a new gown, however modish, could not have altered her appearance so radically. And yet . . . Seeing herself in the robe of black crêpe, ornamented with black velvet trimming at the hems, Eliza felt herself transformed: no longer a dowdy dowager hidden in a superabundance of black bombazine, but someone rather elegant. Under the gown’s effects, she could notice too that her face had become less gaunt over the past weeks, her hair thicker, that the dark circles under her eyes had faded in prominence to now appear more piquant than frightened. In some indescribable way it was as if her whole being was taking its cue from the superior gown, standing taller, straighter and lighting up in a way she had not in years.
It might be a ridiculous power to afford gowns and hair and ribbons, but watching Margaret, who Eliza had never known to express even a passing satisfaction in her appearance, staring at herself in the mirror, eyes wide and vulnerable and so tentatively pleased with her reflection that Eliza thought her heart might break with tenderness, it did not feel ridiculous. The sea-green crêpe gown, short-sleeved, worn low on the shoulders, and trimmed only with a simple ribbon around the bodice, contrasted brilliantly against Margaret’s red hair and pale, freckled skin, and became her tall figure to admiration.
“It almost feels too good to be true,” Eliza said, with a sweep of her arm that she meant to encompass the dresses, the house, and the entirety of their new lifestyle. “Do you feel that way, too?”
Margaret snorted, her reverie with the mirror broken.
“Perhaps I might, if it were not for the constant letters from our mothers,” she said. “Or if it were not for the Winkworths.”
The Winkworths were their neighbors upon Camden Place: Mrs. Winkworth, a relentless social climber, her husband, Admiral Winkworth, a surly gentleman with no discernible qualities, and their daughter, Miss Winkworth, the most silent young lady Eliza had ever encountered. Margaret had taken an immediate and violent dislike to them all.
“Mrs. Winkworth is one of the leaders of Bath society, we ought to make a little effort with her,” Eliza reminded Margaret.
“I abhor effort,” Margaret said darkly.
Wrapped in thick cloaks, they set out with only Staves the footman as escort. The hills of Bath made equestrian traffic difficult and therefore rare, but since most destinations were easily accessible on foot this caused no issue unless the day was wet, in which case one could procure a sedan chair or hackney cab. The New Assembly Rooms, situated in the recently built upper town, were a very grand set of buildings, boasting a hundred-foot-long ballroom, concert room and card room, all furnished extravagantly and lit with crystal chandeliers hanging from the lofty ceilings. Eliza gazed about with interest as they entered, for she had heard that portraits by Gainsborough and Hoare hung on the walls, but they had only taken a step inside when they found themselves hailed and turned to find the whole Winkworth family bearing down upon them. They were all distinctly ovine in appearance: Mrs. Winkworth a handsome sheep, Miss Winkworth a delicate lamb, and Admiral Winkworth a goat without any of the charisma.
“Good evening, Mrs. Winkworth,” Eliza said, hiding her dismay under enthusiasm.
“You ought to have said you were attending tonight’s performance!” Mrs. Winkworth chided. “We would have escorted you!”
Precisely why Eliza had not mentioned it.
“My apologies,” Eliza said.
“Come, you must join our party—we are gathering in the Octagon Room,” Mrs. Winkworth said, beckoning them. Margaret stepped meaningfully on Eliza’s foot.
“Actually, I think we ought to sit . . .” Eliza tried. It might not be wise to alienate Mrs. Winkworth, but neither would her set be Eliza’s first choice of friends in Bath.
“I was very much hoping to make some introductions,” Mrs. Winkworth said, a steeliness in her honeyed tones that so strongly reminded Eliza of Mrs. Balfour that she immediately capitulated and followed her into the Octagon Room where they were engulfed by the hum of many voices, the rustle of many skirts, and the sparkle of many jewels. Eliza sucked in a deep, steadying breath. One would have thought her tenure as Countess of Somerset, with all the hunting parties hosted at Harefield Hall, would have inured her to such nerves, but she had felt so vastly out of her depth amongst all the high-ranking peers the old earl had counted as friends, that the experience had detracted rather than added to her social confidence.
“Lady Somerset, Miss Balfour, may I introduce to you some of my dearest friends . . . ?”
As Mrs. Winkworth made the introductions around the group—each curtseying or bowing deeply to Eliza in turn—she skillfully contrived, without exactly lying, to give the impression that she and Eliza were far better acquainted than they truly were, perhaps desirous of using the borrowed glory of Eliza’s title to boost her own social standing. Eliza, meanwhile, could only try to remember each name—Mr. Broadwater with the spectacles, Mrs. Michels with the enormous turban—and concentrate on not twisting her hands in nervousness.
“And this is Mr. Berwick, our celebrated artist . . .”
Eliza swung her eyes over to this gentleman, interest unfeigned.
“Oh, Mrs. Winkworth, you should not flatter me so,” he said, with unconvincing humility and a bow to Eliza. “You are almost worse than Mr. Benjamin West—the President of the Royal Academy, you know, Lady Somerset—he sings my praises at every opportunity, to my mortification.”
Under Mr. Berwick’s bumptious speech, Eliza’s interest wilted.
“May I express my very great sorrow for your loss, my lady,” Mr. Berwick went on. “Though we artists are all true empaths, I still cannot imagine how you are feeling.”
Eliza certainly hoped not.
“It has been a very trying time,” she lied.
There were murmurs of sympathy around the group.
“If a little distraction would be beneficial,” Mr. Berwick said. “I would be honored to have you sit for a portrait. Madame Catalani is sitting for me at the moment, but yours would be an even higher privilege. A haunting elegy to a widow’s grief . . .”
He gazed into the distance as if to imagine it.
“I hardly think that would be proper, Mr. Berwick—” Mrs. Winkworth began crossly.
“Darling Lady Somerset, Miss Balfour, you both look divine!” Lady Hurley arrived just in time to interrupt Mrs. Winkworth mid-flow. She squeezed Eliza’s arm in welcome, an intimacy that she, being a lady herself, felt comfortable indulging in though they had only met thrice, while Mrs. Winkworth looked on jealously.
“Your earrings are very fine,” Margaret said. Lady Hurley—dressed today in a gown of ruby velvet, superbly ornamented with silver trimming—was a handsome dowager of indiscriminate age, lively humor and truly magnificent bosom.
“Oh, these old things? A gift from my late husband,” Lady Hurley dismissed the nutmeg-sized diamonds with a graceful wave of her hand. “I must say, it is so lovely to see the rooms filled out at last.”
“Splendid!” Mr. Fletcher agreed heartily. Lady Hurley’s junior in age by at least ten years, the handsome Mr. Fletcher was nonetheless her loyal gallant, escorting her everywhere with utter devotion.
“Bath was almost at risk of feeling a little flat, do you not think?” Lady Hurley said to no one in particular.
“I cannot agree,” Mrs. Winkworth said sharply. “As Camden Place is full year-round, we never feel deprived of company. Though I imagine it might feel a little flat on Laura Place, Lady Hurley. Has number four been let yet? It must have been a year since its last residents.”
Even in the fortnight since their arrival, Eliza had witnessed a dozen such unsubtle jibes—Lady Hurley’s late husband had picked up his title in the city, and Mrs. Winkworth’s disdain of such commercial roots was well-known, but Lady Hurley only smiled.
“You will be pleased, then, to hear number four has indeed been rented just this week,” she said. “Do you know Lord Melville? He and his sister, Lady Caroline, have rented the house for three months.”
Mrs. Winkworth looked as though an artichoke had been thrust unexpectedly down her throat, Mrs. Michels’s eyes expanded, and Mr. Broadwater made a shocked harrumph. Eliza and Margaret exchanged disbelieving glances. Since their arrival in Bath, their days had been so full that they had not had time to consider Melville a great deal and, as their bruises had long faded, the crash upon the Bath Road had assumed the quality of a dream. Melville turning up in Bath, of all places, seemed highly unlikely, and from the questions being pelted at Lady Hurley, they were not alone in this surprise.
“Is it really true, Lady Hurley?”
“Three whole months?”
“Is he as charming as they say?”
“Oh, you know I am far too discreet to indulge in speculation,” Lady Hurley said, oozing self-satisfaction. “Though you may ask them yourselves, for I invited them to join us, tonight—ah, here they are now!”