Lady of the Lock Page 6

  “Restored the Pontesbury fortunes,” Miss Grimley added, “but at what cost? Malvinia Pontesbury is but a generation removed from the mill, and I assure you, no matter how finely wrapped in silk, she is far more a tradesman’s daughter than you, my child.”

  For a moment Mandy sat quite still, trying to school her unruly tongue to silence. But the moment passed. “Miss Grimley,” she ventured, “I have far less money to recommend me.”

  “Nonsense!” the dowager snapped. “Money is but a minor consideration. Merriwether is upper gentry, with a First from Cambridge. He hobs and nobs with all the men of high title on the canal committee, does he not? And you, my dear, are as well educated as a young miss could be. As for my side of the family, your mama’s blood was as blue as the best of them. Granddaughter of an earl, she was and could have married as high as she pleased.”

  “You are very good, Aunt, to encourage me to ignore the barbs.” Mandy paused, considering her words before adding, “But you must agree Lady Christabel will have a very fine dowry.”

  “And how,” asked the dowager most awfully, “can that possibly matter? You are scarcely a suitor for her hand.”

  Mandy choked, one hand flying up to cover her mouth. Laughter welled up, spilling over into outright chuckles. When she was able to form words, she said, “Aunt Tynsdale, this visit is just what I needed. You have whittled my fears down to splinters. No matter what slings and arrows may come my way, I shall recall your good words and be able to endure with no more than the occasional quiver.”

  “No roundaboutation, child. You have not answered my question.”

  “Indeed, Aunt, I thought you spoke in jest.”

  “If you think I do not know about Montsale’s dalliance, you are very much mistaken. And I assure you I did not first hear of it from your papa. It was the on dit of the Pump Room that spring, as was Carewe’s tightening of the reins. Pity the boy was so poor-spirited. It would have been a splendid coup, my dear, quite splendid. And now it appears he’s dangling after the Mainwaring chit.”

  Mandy failed to hear her aunt’s final statement, as waves of horror shot from her toes to her brain, paralyzing her voice. All Bath knew of her spring idyll with Montsale? Of his leaving her twenty months ago and never coming back.

  Mortifying. Completely, agonizingly mortifying. Shoulders slumping, Mandy hung her head.

  “Enough of that nonsense,” the dowager declared briskly. “Let us discuss more important things. On Thursday next, Amanda, you will make your début in the Upper Assembly Rooms. We have waited for the rooms to be less thin of company, and, naturally, I also wished to be certain the rough edges of your manners had been polished to perfection.”

  This overly generous remark was enough to bring back Mandy’s voice. “You are too good, Aunt. You know quite well I still have the odd kick to my gallop.”

  “And most refreshing it is. I am certain the gentlemen will be intrigued,” Lady Tynsdale returned smoothly. “But I believe you have already developed something of a court, have you not?”

  “Indeed, Aunt,” Mandy returned, a slight flush warming her cheeks. “I am blessed with the companionship of old friends, some of Papa’s engineers. And Miss Oglethorpe and I have recently made the acquaintance of several other young gentlemen who have shown an interest in drinking the waters.”

  “Drinking the waters, is it?” Lady Tynsdale chuckled. “A small sacrifice, I’m sure, to encourage the Master of Ceremonies to present them to eligible young ladies.”

  “Eulalia!” Miss Grimley chided, but was ignored.

  “Get along with you now,” the dowager said to Mandy. “The skies grow dark early this time of year. We shall meet at the Upper Assembly Rooms on Thursday. Tell your papa not to be late. I fear it will be a great crush and we wish to sure of seats near the fire.”

  Mandy made her farewells, descending the hill toward the heart of Bath with very mixed feelings indeed. Names chased through her head—Carewe, Pontesbury, Silverdale, Christabel, Olympia . . . Jeremy. Brother to Montsale. Her friend Bourne.

  Her one-time friend. Now lost.

  She was about to make her come-out at the Upper Assembly Rooms, dressed to the nines, and he would not be there to see her.

  Cool wind off the river stung as it licked at the tear rolling down her cheek. Angrily, Mandy wiped it away. How could she lower herself to shed a tear for a man who had deserted her twenty months since, never to return?

  Mandy’s eyes narrowed, her lower lip jutted out. Miserable man. She would not allow Bourne Granville Hayden Challenor to spoil her very first assembly in Bath.

  The Upper Assembly Rooms. Mandy’s heart beat faster with each lurch of her chair as her chairmen jogged uphill toward the section of Bath that featured the Royal Crescent, the Circus, and the Upper Assembly Rooms. How the poor men could move at such a fast pace up a steep hill while carrying anyone—let alone some with more bulk than Aunt Tynsdale—was beyond her reckoning. But even Mandy knew better than to suggest she and Papa walk in all their finery from Laura Place to Bennett Street. Nonetheless, she suspected Bath’s chairmen must be as fit as the navvies, perhaps more so.

  Papa had escorted her to several concerts in the Upper Rooms, but this would be her first dance. The butterflies in Mandy’s stomach had ceased to flutter and were now performing more somersaults than the riders at Astley’s Circus. It was not as if she had never danced before. Papa had taken her to local assemblies for as long as she could remember and had encouraged his engineers to participate as well. The change of scene from the muddy canal was beneficial, he always said, and, besides, if you were going to tear a large swath through local lands and bring in an army of rough navvies to do it, it was best to become personally acquainted with the local gentry. But dances in Bath’s Upper Assembly Rooms were far from those held at a country inn. The Rooms were, in fact, second only in prestige to Almack’s itself.

  Mandy glanced down at the faint sheen of her gown of cream silk. The tiny seed pearls covering the bodice and puffed sleeves, and scattered over the skirt, were barely visible in the flickering light filtering through the chair’s curtains from a torch held by a bearer running in front, lighting their way. Would she do? Would the young men who had begun to hover ’round her in the Pump Room ask her to dance?

  Ah! With a startled jerk Mandy unclenched the fingers which had been clutching her reticule so hard she feared she had nearly snapped her fan. Fool! She was the Lady of the Lock, queen of the Kennet and Avon navvies, a goddess to its young engineers, yet she quailed before the stares of Bath dowagers, their daughters, and their daughters’ daughters. Absurd.

  She peeked through the curtain and discovered a veritable sea of torches, chairs, and chairmen, setting down a parade of elegantly dressed men and women, who proceeded to make their way between the four imposing marble columns that marked the front entrance to the Upper Assembly Rooms. Thump. Mandy gulped as her chair hit the ground. How green could a girl be? They weren’t going to eat her!

  And there was Papa, sweeping aside the curtain, offering her his hand. Lady of the Lock, Lady of the Lock, Mandy repeated to herself as they joined the cream of Bath society. The others here tonight might come from grand families with multiple holdings, but she was the Lady of the Kennet and Avon Canal, of one hundred and five locks over eighty-seven miles, extending from Berkshire through Wiltshire to Somerset.

  Head high, shoulders straight, Mandy walked at her father’s side, eyes fixed on the brilliant glow reflected off the glass crystals of the chandelier in the room at the end of the corridor. Oh, my! She had heard the card room was octagonal, but, in truth, it was magnificent. “Your refuge, Papa,” she teased.

  “Perhaps after I have delivered you to your aunt,” he returned smoothly, “and ascertained that all my young scamps are behaving themselves.”

  “Papa! Mr. Tharp always behaves himself, Mr. Appleton and Mr. Prescott as well.”

  “I do not consider Tharp one of my young scamps,” John Merriwether declare
d a trifle repressively, “but Appleton and Prescott—it remains to be seen. There were a few country dances where I recall—”

  “I assure you, they know quite well this is Bath, not a country romp.”

  “Perhaps so, my dear, but I shall delay my card-playing until I am quite certain they will not disgrace us all.”

  “Ah, look, Papa. That must be where refreshments are served.” Mandy nodded toward a large room on their right. “If no one asks me to dance, I can always pretend I was too anxious to eat dinner tonight and am suddenly consumed with hunger.”

  “And may I remind you of the year’s wages spent to make this moment possible.”

  Mandy ducked her head. Obviously, her attempt at levity had failed. And of course Papa was right. They had not come to the Upper Assembly Rooms for her to skulk in the Tea Room. She stiffened her spine, set her chin at its most arrogant angle. “If we follow the sound of the orchestra, Papa, I believe we shall find the ballroom.”

  The ballroom more than lived up to Mandy’s expectations. Two full stories, with a towering domed ceiling above, it was lit by three magnificent crystal chandeliers and two brightly burning fireplaces. Marble columns, elaborately scrolled at the top, marched down each long side of the room. At one short end was a gallery for onlookers. And, unlike the Pump Room, the orchestra was also housed in a gallery above the dance floor.

  “There, Papa,” Mandy said when she’d stopped gawking at the ballroom and looked instead at the people in it. “Aunt Tynsdale is seated near the fireplace across the room and the Oglethorpes as well.” Since the dancing had not yet begun, they were able to make their way across the room with ease. The moment polite amenities were accomplished, Miss Henrietta Oglethorpe, now a close enough friend for Mandy to call her Hetty, seized Mandy’s hands, pulling her down to a seat beside her, words tumbling from her mouth in a great babble of excitement, leaving their elders to exchange indulgent smiles and desultory conversation.

  “Do you think Lord Jeremy will be here?” Hetty asked, eyes alight. “He is quite the most charming young man I have ever met, yet he has eyes only for you.”

  “Nonsense,” Mandy declared, “he is nothing more than a boy. I assure you I have no interest in him whatsoever.”

  “But, Mandy, that is so cruel. Anyone may see he adores you. The last few mornings his eyes have followed you around the Pump Room like a lost puppy. You have only to smile and he glows like a candle. Truly, I swear it. Everyone has noticed.”

  Inwardly, Mandy groaned. If “everyone” had noticed, then she was well on her way to receiving the cut direct from the Dowager Duchess of Carewe and her guests. One son showing a decided penchant for her company was bad enough, but two . . .

  How decidedly unfair. Particularly when she had no interest in the infantry, and that is what she considered Lord Jeremy, no matter how polished his manners or how high his rank.

  And yet she was Papa’s investment, expected to marry as well as she could. The younger son of a duke would be a triumph of the first magnitude. A younger son who brought back painful memories every time she looked at him. A younger son who invoked not a single flutter . . .

  No, never. Nothing could bring her to encourage him. Papa’s investment, whispered her common sense. But how frightful to consider herself in such terms. Surely Papa did not truly wish to see her married. The plain facts were, he was only doing what he felt obliged to do. He had become so dependent on her help he would find it difficult to finish the canal without her.

  Yet there was so little left to complete. Mr. Tharp had the tunnel well in hand, and Tyler Holcombe had been in charge of the Caen Hill locks for years. Merciful heavens! A shocking thought struck her like a clap of thunder. They had been talking about, surveying, or building the K&A canal since she was old enough to remember. It could not be winding down . . . Papa’s daily involvement nearly done . . .

  “I suppose Captain Dunstan will not attend,” Hetty said, having never paused her recital of who might attend the evening’s festivities. “He cannot dance, of course, with such a limp, but I had hoped—”

  “Silly goose,” Mandy interjected into her friend’s spate of words. “If there is one thing Captain Dunstan is not, it is mortified by his limp. He is a hero, wounded in the battle of Copenhagen, and holds his head high. Indeed, his stick adds a certain cachet, as I’m sure you agree. So why should he not come and enjoy the sight of so many pretty ladies in their ballgowns, perhaps play a game of cards and sample the refreshments?”

  Miss Oglethorpe sighed. “The saber scar on his cheek is so romantic. My heart flutters every time he enters the Pump Room. And the other morning I nearly bumped into him outside the book shop on Milsom Street. I assure you, I had palpitations. Truly, I thought ladies were exaggerating when they said a man gave them palpitations, but ’tis true, I swear it.”

  “I must admit he makes Lord Jeremy look even younger than his years. But do you not agree there is nothing quite so attractive as the son of a duke?”

  “You are funning me,” Hetty accused, peeping at Mandy from under her eyeslashes.

  “I fear I am,” Mandy admitted. “But I pray you, do not discount Luke Appleton and Peter Prescott. They may not be as well-connected nor as exciting as Lord Jeremy and Captain Gordon, but I assure you they are destined for stellar careers. And I can vouch for their characters. I have known them for years.” Characters acceptable to the Merriwethers, but perhaps not to Mrs. Oglethorpe, the wife of a vicar. Mandy occasionally found it difficult to adjust to the differences between her friend’s upbringing and her own.

  “Good evening, ladies, Mr. Merriwether.” Startled, Mandy bounced in her seat. She had been so absorbed in her conversation with Hetty, she had completely missed Lord Jeremy’s approach. He made his bow, turned to his companion. “May I present my friend, Mr. Farnborough?”

  Mandy could not deny a flicker of interest, though how much was for Mr. Farnborough’s strikingly attractive face and figure and how much for the gleam of recognition that had lit the eyes of their chaperones she could not be certain. Mr. Farnborough boasted gleaming chestnut curls, rich brown eyes, and features that might have been ripped from a statue of Apollo. And since Lord Jeremy’s features were almost a replica of his older brother’s striking countenance, the pair of them were the cynosure of every eye. Both young ladies rose to their feet and curtsied.

  “May I—”

  “May we—”

  After their words stumbled over each other, Mr. Farnborough was first to recover. “May we have the pleasure of soliciting the first dance? I believe Lord Jeremy has the right of longer acquaintance, so I defer to his choice of partner.”

  Lord Montsale’s younger brother swallowed hard, his ears tinged pink. “Miss Merriwether,” he declared valiantly, “if you would be so kind?” He proffered his hand.

  Mandy accepted with a smile and a rush of relief. She would not go partnerless in the first set. Though she might have wished for a different Challenor than the young sprig at her side.

  Chapter Seven

  An hour later, the two young ladies, glowing from the exertions of a country dance, subsided into chairs next to Mrs. Oglethorpe, a lady of pleasant features, good birth, and calm demeanor, whom Mandy secretly considered perfectly suited to her role of vicar’s wife. “There is Captain Dunstan, just come in,” Hetty whispered, leaning close. “Do you suppose—”

  Mandy patted her friend’s hand. “He will be here directly, I am certain of it.”

  “Do you suppose Mama will allow me to sit out a dance with him?”

  “Whyever should she not?”

  Hetty’s lips thinned, her gaze drifting toward her slippers. “Mama does not approve of military gentlemen. She calls wars an abomination . . . and has declared I shall never follow the drum.”

  “But you have not known Captain Dunstan above two weeks. Surely—”

  Hetty brought her lips close to Mandy’s ear. “In truth, I met him at an assembly in Hungerford more than a year ago when
he visited a friend in Papa’s parish. I was dazzled, as only a girl of sixteen can be.” Hetty flushed, her porcelain skin suddenly more rosy than her gown.

  Dazzled, as only a girl of sixteen can be. Mandy winced. Ah, how she knew that feeling, and the pain that went with it, all too well.

  “Ladies.” Captain Dunstan made his bows to Lady Tynsdale and the others in their party.

  Mrs. Oglethorpe, Mandy noted, returned his greeting with no more than a cool inclination of her head. Ah, misery! It would appear she and Hetty were destined to a mutual wearing of the willow. Not at all the proper response to the efforts their elders had made to bring them out in style. Very well, if Montsale could be so excruciatingly sensible—which obviously he was as she had not seen hide nor hair of him in nearly two years—then so could she. But could she urge Hetty to do the same, particularly when the object of her affections was face to face with her in the romantic setting of an elegantly appointed ballroom filled with colorfully gowned people, the precious sounds of stringed instruments wafting over their heads?

  Highly unlikely, Mandy decided with a sigh, just as Luke Appleton appeared in front of her to claim the next dance. Leaving Hetty to gaze worshipfully into Captain Gideon Dunstan’s scarred face, while Mrs. Oglethorpe stared straight ahead, looking for all the world as if she’d swallowed a fly. After a last sympathetic glance at her new friend, Mandy whirled back into the gaiety of the dance.

  She was making her way down the line—step to the center, touch hands, turn, move on to the next—when she found herself face to face with her father. She gasped, stumbled, lost the beat so badly only Luke’s quick thinking saved her from disgrace. Papa and Mrs. Honeycutt? But he was supposed to be in the Octagon Room, playing cards. Which, quite clearly, he was not.