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“Now, Wentwell, let it go. There is nothing to be done about it, and picking at a scab will not allow the wound to heal.” Reginald sank into the side chair and watched his friend fuss with his cravat, adjusting the tie, and then pulling it loose to retie it again.
“Fiend seize it,” Wentwell swore at the thing and began again.
“You primp like a woman,” Reginald complained.
Wentwell threw him a look. “Are you in a hurry?”
“I told Patience I would take her to the shops and perhaps the waters this morning. I did plan to do so before noon.”
Wentwell paused in his tying. “I am not fit for feminine company this morning,” he said.
“Tell me something new,” Reginald said, drumming his fingers nervously on the armrest.
“You should go on without me,” Neville said.
When Wentwell was finished tying his cravat, he found his slightly wrinkled waistcoat and brushed ineffectively at it before Reginald commented. “I know you have a man for that. It looks like you slept in the thing.”
“There are reasons a man should take care of himself,” he told his friend with a wink.
Reg laughed aloud. “So have you decided? Are we going to the Pump room or not?” Reginald asked.
“I see no reason to do so,” Wentwell said. “I would much rather to the races. Why would you volunteer to ferry your sister about? Doesn’t she have a husband for that nonsense now?”
“She does, but he is still in Town, and the vapors of Bath will cure what ails you,” Reg said.
Wentwell snorted. “I have found the air in Bath to be quite noxious lately.”
“Which is exactly why you should take the waters,” Reg urged. “It will cure this melancholy of yours.”
“I’ll tell you what will cure my melancholy,” Neville snapped. “Unfortunately I am sure the Ton would take exception to my strangling the source of it.
“I meant something which would preferably keep you from being remanded by the law.”
“Humph,” Neville said as he gathered his jacket. “Come on then. Let us to your sister, but I warn you, I promise to be vile company.”
~.~
The morning following the concert, Lady Charity left her mother still abed, while she took her father to the healing waters where he might be lowered into the steaming pool by his manservant, Wilson. Charity’s maid, Jean Davies also accompanied them. The morning bathing hours for women had ended an hour prior. Charity was not at all displeased that she had missed her opportunity to soak, for she cared not one bit for the earthen scent of the hot spring and always felt a wash was in order afterward, which was of course absurd.
She and Jean took their seat in the gardens as they awaited the return of the Earl from his dip.
“If you shall not bathe, my dear,” her father had murmured as he was led away, “at least you must collect a vial to carry in your purse. I find a few drops in my tea to be quite pleasant.”
Lady Charity nodded, though she had no intention of adding the limey water to her drink. There were enough quacks and peddlers milling about boasting their herbal and mineral tonics, all boosted by the healing powers of the waters. While she did not deny that the warmth of the water was a relief to sore muscles, especially after a long evening of dancing, she was not entirely convinced of its miracle benefits. Her father, however, did seem to do better after a long soak, so perhaps there was something to it after all.
Jean settled on the bench with a bit of needlework, but Charity was restless. The air in Bath was hot and a bit sticky with the humidity from the waters, but nothing at all like the closeness of Town in summer.
Charity didn’t mind summering in Bath so her father might benefit from the waters. She knew many of the Ton visited Brighton by the sea, but the gardens and architecture of Bath were beautiful. She was perfectly happy to sit on a garden bench with her needlework or a book. She felt she was back in time when the Roman artisans worked their magic, and thoughts of Romans reminded her of Julia’s paintings and their giggling. She felt desperately alone, even with Jean by her side. Perhaps she could convince Julia to go shopping with her once she arrived in Bath, that is, if Charity could escape her mother’s ministrations.
Charity enjoyed beautiful things and was always mesmerized by the exquisite style, where everything had its place. The simple symmetry of Bath calmed her. She loved the mosaics set with glittering stones. When she was doing needlework, one stitch at a time, she often wondered at the patience it must have taken to construct such beauty one tiny stone by tiny stone. She admired the fine sculptures as well as the street crafts and often found some little treasure made by humble hands. She had always been drawn to the artists, sculptors, painters, potters and metalworkers who constantly visited Bath to share their talents with the gentry who summered there. She was a constant patron and a few of the merchants even recognized her.
In the past, Miss Julia Bellevue would have strolled with Charity through the streets as they admired some beauty of manmade design. Julia’s eye for art was unparalleled, and Charity longed for the artist’s companionship. Now that she was married, Julia was more like to stroll with her husband, Godwin Gruger, The Baron Fawkland. Perhaps one day, when Charity had acquired a husband of her own, the pairs might take their leisure together once more.
Prior to their matches, the ladies had chittered about their futures as wives. Laughing and wondering about the men they would love had occupied countless hours. Now that the reality had begun, Charity found herself quite outside of the loop. The others had found their mates, while she remained unhindered and wholly at sixes and sevens. She was completely unprepared for this reality.
Perhaps that was why she now found herself so drawn to the Poppy sisters. Through the years, they had grown close enough to call one another cousin, despite no blood link between the families. The Poppy sisters were, four in number, three of them still unwed with no prospects in sight. At least, not that Charity had heard tell of any serious suitors.
She sighed and glanced up just in time to see the smiling face of her dear friend Patience approaching upon the arm of her brother, Reginald. Her heart leaped for joy. Even as a married woman, Patience did look somewhat like a waif, with her wide eyes and red hair curling around her face as it came loose from her summer bonnet. Charity could not help but smile, all of her previous melancholy melted away in the presence of just one good friend.
