“Everything is quite perfect, Perkins,” she said, inhaling the delicate fumes of a perfectly brewed cup of tea. Perkins, never one for grandiose displays of emotion, inclined his head.
“Will there be anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” Eliza said. Then, impulsively, she added, “Except—could the fires be lit? All of them?”
Eliza had had enough of the cold.
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.