Belinda Goes to Bath

the castle as his only guests, he had led her to believe he would marry her.

He must get away. But he could not bear to leave the Jordans in residence.

But where?

He had a married sister, Mary, Lady Arnold, who lived in Bath. He had not seen Mary in some time and a visit was long overdue. He was not very fond of his sister, for Mary, older than he by three years, had seen no point in his determination in the early days to keep the castle and estates. She was anxious to secure a good dowry and saw the maintenance of the castle as eating up any possible dowry she might have. But she had married well, although she was fond of saying it was thanks to her own efforts and no thanks to her brother. Still, she was his sister and he should pay her a call.

He wondered about Miss Earle and what she thought of him, or if she thought of him. He should be grateful to the redoubtable Miss Pym for interrupting them. He wished now he had not been in such a hurry to be shot of the stage-coach passengers. Miss Pym had entertained him with her forthright manner and the singing of the Judds had been a delight. Belinda Earle had enjoyed the music, to which Penelope appeared totally deaf. He remembered Belinda’s expressive face and the emotions flitting across her large eyes. Why was it considered bad ton for women to betray emotions? On reflection, he considered it was only considered bad ton to show real emotion. A lady could not laugh out loud with pleasure, but she could give that high, chiming, artificial laugh taught by her music teacher. She could not betray either horror or disgust, but she was allowed to faint or cry genteelly to show sensibility. And passion? Never! Never was any lady supposed to burn and sigh and moan in his arms like Belinda Earle. And on that thought came a craving, a hunger, to see her again.

His valet slipped a night-gown over the marquess’s head, saw his master into bed, and then retired, slipping out of the room as soft-footed as a cat.

Why can I not see her again? thought the marquess suddenly. This is ridiculous. She is young, unmarried, and of good family.

He began to make plans. First he must get rid of the Jordans.

The Jordans rose early, or rather, early for them. Nine o’clock and the castle was resounding with scrapes and bangs and thumps. The smell of paint was everywhere.

Struggling into his dressing-gown, Sir Henry rang the bell and demanded testily to know what the deuce the infernal row was all about.

The chambermaid bobbed a curtsy and said his lordship was having every room redecorated.

‘He can’t!’ wailed Lady Henry, sitting up in bed, her nightcap askew. ‘Penelope!’ For their darling daughter was highly sensitive to the smell of fresh paint.

Sir Henry dressed at great speed and went in search of the marquess. There seemed to be paint-pots and ladders and workmen everywhere.

‘Ah, Sir Henry,’ called the marquess cheerfully as that gentleman ran him to earth in the breakfast- room.

‘You must send all these decorators away,’ said Sir Henry wrathfully. ‘The smell of paint makes my poor Penelope ill.’

The marquess affected concern. ‘My dear Sir Henry. What am I to do? It is hard for the local artisans to find work in the winter. I cannot cut off their employ. But as I am leaving shortly, it might be a good idea if you started on your journey as well.’

‘But you have not yet proposed to my daughter, or have you?’ barked Sir Henry, almost beside himself with fury and thwarted hope.

The marquess’s eyes went quite blank. ‘I have not yet proposed to your daughter, nor shall I. I fear I am a confirmed bachelor.’

‘You led us to believe the knot was as good as tied.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘Damme, that trolley I bought you at great expense, mark you, at great expense, was by way of an engagement present.’

The marquess turned to the butler, who was standing by the sideboard. ‘Hemmings,’ he said, ‘take said trolley from the dining-room, parcel it up, and give it back to Sir Henry; or better still, put it in his carriage with his baggage and have his carriage brought round to the front door in readiness. Unfortunately, Sir Henry finds himself obliged to leave.’

‘Pah!’ said Sir Henry, hopping up and down in rage and disappointment. ‘Pah, pah, and pooh to you, sir!’

The marquess picked up the morning paper and began to read it.

It was hard to tell, when the Jordans left, whether Penelope was crying with rage or weeping from the effects of the paint. Her eyes were red and swollen.

‘I shall never forgive her. Never!’ said Penelope as the carriage drove off.

‘Who?’ asked her mother.

‘That Belinda Earle creature and her sluttish ways.’

‘Put it all out of your mind,’ said Lady Jordan. ‘Frenton is quite mad. Have you your book, Sir Henry?’

‘Already looking,’ muttered Sir Henry. He kept a book of all the noble families with eligible sons and their addresses. ‘Here it is,’ he said at last. ‘Lord Frederick, eldest son of the Earl of Twitterton. They have a box between Shepherd’s Shore and Devizes. You have not met Lord Frederick, Penelope. He is returned from the Grand Tour this month. We shall strike while the iron is hot.’

The marquess, having started the decoration to get rid of the Jordans, decided to go ahead with it and stayed to supervise. Miss Earle would be at the inn close at hand for the next few days. Having made up his mind to see her again, caution set in and he decided he did not want to appear too eager. He did not know her very well, after all.

But, unknown to him, by the following morning the Bath coach was once more on the road. Belinda’s heart plummetted as the coach slowly rolled out of the inn yard. He had not come. He was probably engaged to chilly Penelope by now.

She was relieved that the odious Mr Biles at least had the merit of making Miss Wimple his concern. He fussed over her and handed her smelling-salts and read to her. She fluttered and tittered and thanked him profusely. She appeared to be in prime health and despite her fondness for spirits was evidently as strong as an ox.

Hannah passed the tedium of the journey by regaling Belinda with tales from the guidebook. When they reached Beckhampton, where the Bath roads converged, Belinda was disappointed that they were only to be allowed half an hour, for she had hoped to see the abbey nearby. Hannah had told her a most intriguing story about it. Evidently, in the sixteenth century, there lived a young lady called Miss Sheringham whose father owned the abbey. She had been refused permission to see her lover, one John Talbot. One night she was standing on the abbey battlements calling down to him. Then she said, ‘I will leap down to you,’ a rather unwise decision as the walls were thirty feet high. Nonetheless, she leaped. The wind came to her rescue and ‘got under her coates’ (no doubt, the ulster of the sixteenth century), and so assisted, she flopped down into the arms of Talbot and to all appearances killed him dead on the spot. She sat down and wept. But Talbot, who had only been temporarily winded, recovered and clasped her in his arms. And it was at that point that Miss Sheringham’s father, with a fine sense of the melodramatic, jumped out of a bush and observed, ‘as his daughter had made such a leap to him, she must e’en marry him.’ And so they were married and lived happily ever after.

Belinda could not share Hannah’s enthusiasm for coach travel. Despite the sunny weather, the coach was cold and damp. It had been vigorously hosed down inside after its repairs and did not seem to have dried out. The constant swaying was making her feel sick. She had started her journey hoping it would take as long as possible. Now she felt even Great-Aunt Harriet would be preferable. Every time she thought of the Marquess of Frenton, which was frequently, she felt so low in spirits that she believed there was nothing left anyone could do to lower them any further. At the inn at Beckhampton, there had been a party of bloods from another coach and they had been discoursing loudly and anatomically about the charms of a certain Sally until the horrified landlord had turned them out. Belinda shuddered as she wondered whether the marquess would tell his friends about her vulgar passions.

Bath was drawing even closer. The coachman was a good and steady man and the horses were fresh. But three and a half miles outside Beckhampton they crossed high, windy, unprotected ground. The temperature had been dropping rapidly, and to the dismay of the passengers, they found that snow had begun to fall.

They stopped at a tiny inn called Shepherd’s Shore and all crowded around the fire. The coachman said he