Mawl scrutinized the shopkeeper’s face. “Is that true?”
“It is true that the countess maintains an account with Travers Millinery: Domestic and Imported,” the proprietor said, struggling to maintain his dignity.
“And I shall pay for the lace,” Jane said, removing a coin from C.J.’s purse, “as I am quite sure that an oversight was made and that my aunt simply wished to separate the white lace from the cream.” Her voice then assumed a confidential tone. “She is past sixty years of age, you see, and her eyesight is not as good as it once was where it comes to the discernment of subtle variations of color.” She offered the money to Mr. Travers and sneaked a stern glance at Mrs. Leigh-Perrot.
The constable now deemed it meet to reassert his authority. “Then, sir, I put it to you: are you willing to accept this payment for the lace and the young lady’s request to put her items on account for Lady Dalrymple?”
Afraid to lose further trade, the milliner nodded his head.
Constable Mawl smiled with evident satisfaction. “Then I bid you all a good day.” He turned on his heels and strode out of the shop and down Milsom Street, whistling the tune C.J. recognized as “Waltzing Matilda.”
Three relieved women departed the milliner’s and Mrs. Leigh-Perrot rushed home to the safety of the Paragon.
Jane took both of C.J.’s hands and held them while she studied her friend’s face. “You would have done as much for anyone else, I’m certain,” she said quietly.
“No,” replied C.J. softly, “I daresay I wouldn’t.” She gave her friend’s hands a gentle squeeze and caught Miss Austen’s unspoken expression of gratitude.
Suddenly, C.J. was overtaken by a violent wave of nausea.
“Miss Welles!” An alarmed Miss Austen steadied her friend’s arm, and with nowhere else in the immediate vicinity to rest, escorted C.J. back to the milliner’s and led her to a seat just inside the door. She asked Mr. Travers to fetch a glass of water, which C.J. sipped slowly, feeling quite flushed and more than a little dizzy.
Minutes later she excused herself from Miss Austen’s tender ministrations and bolted from the shop in search of a bush behind which she might discreetly purge herself of the beverage.
Jane stood by her companion, a cool hand to the girl’s forehead, holding back her ringlets, while C.J. retched uncontrollably, embarrassed to the core. Another bout of nausea sent her to her knees. “Help me,” she whimpered. “I must go home.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Our heroine finally takes the waters; and Lady Dalrymple strikes a bargain with an uninvited, and not entirely welcome, guest.
AS THE DAYS PASSED, C.J. continued to assuage her recurring attacks of nausea by nibbling bits of candied ginger. She recalled having wondered when she first arrived at Lady Wickham’s town house how she would find out what to do when she got her period, not knowing the protocol for such things. But only once had she needed to avail herself of the rags that Mary kept in a drawstring bag, tucked away in a cupboard. She had arrived in Bath on the fifth of April 1801; Constable Mawl would never let her forget that day. It was now June. C.J. counted on her fingers, calculating the time. Perhaps her condition was related to anxiety. She had plenty of that to spare. On the other hand, she had never been pregnant and didn’t know exactly what to expect if she were. Mary, who had no inkling of C.J.’s secret, was certain that her condition was intestinal and could be alleviated if she joined Lady Dalrymple in taking the waters. A lengthy soak in the hot Kings Bath, followed by a quick plunge into the cold Queens Bath, should nicely do the trick, she was sure. And so thrice a week C.J. donned the ugly brown linen shift specially provided by the attendants and took the cure. Each time she went, she held out a hope of seeing Darlington there, but he had never given C.J. any indication of requiring the waters’ restorative properties. How she wished to tell him why she believed she needed to take them! How she yearned to see him! She did see many other couples besporting themselves with no heed paid to a ready audience of gawkers. What a horrid location for an assignation! The baths themselves, which resembled modern swimming pools of modest size, were nothing but public germ tanks where invalids of both genders mingled, regardless of infirmity. People with running sores and infections shared the same water as those with common colds, fevers, or contagious diseases such as consumption. C.J. wondered if the water was ever changed or filtered. The stench would have been palpable had not the attendants attempted to ameliorate it by floating pomanders of lavender and copper bowls filled with scented oils. The countess believed that her “niece” had taken to accompanying her of late simply to monitor her progressive return to good health. She was given no reason to suspect that anything was amiss with the girl’s own well-being, and C.J. did nothing to disabuse Lady Dalrymple of that notion.
MEANWHILE, IT APPEARED that Cassandra Jane Welles had benefactors in the unlikeliest places. It had been the brainchild of Bath resident John Palmer (the elder) to build a new theatre in Orchard Street to replace the old playhouse that had been erected nearby at the time of Beau Nash’s arrival some years earlier. The original theatre, built in 1705, was razed in 1737 (due to poor attendance) to make way for the Mineral Hospital. But Palmer felt that if a new playhouse were to be constructed, residents and visitors alike would throng to see the works of the Irishmen Richard Brinsley Sheridan and Oliver Goldsmith, his fellow Bath neighbors. Palmer was proven correct. His new theatre continued to
