“Will that be all, my lady?” he asked.
“Yes,” Eliza said. Then: “No.”
And she proceeded to make such an order of such length—of easels and palettes, and a dozen squires of paper, and paintbrushes from the size of a pin to the size of a finger, jeweling pencils and bristle pencils, primed cloth, canvas and wooden panels that Mr. Fasana agreed to prepare for her—that Margaret commented, as they left the shop, that: “It might have been easier to inform Mr. Fasana what you didn’t wish to purchase.”
They went next to Duffield’s library, where Eliza organized a subscription to the Annals of the Fine Arts magazine and borrowed every text on agriculture she could find.
“It cannot be so hard, to learn these things,” she declared defiantly to Margaret, “whatever Mr. Walcot says!”
Then they stepped briefly into Madame Prevette’s shop to place an order for two riding habits (they would keep a stable in town, for such a freedom would be worth a few raised eyebrows), before heading at last for the Pump Room.
“Tomorrow,” Eliza decided, her walk even faster than it had been on the outbound journey, “I might request from Mr. Fasana the name of a drawing master, for perhaps I will take up lessons again. Why should a woman’s education cease after she is married? Would you like to take French lessons, Margaret? I know you have always wanted to, and we can more than afford the expense, now.”
“Are you quite well?” Margaret asked. “You are looking swivel-eyed.”
“I am very well,” Eliza said. “I merely think it would behoove us to start pursuing our goals with a little energy, Margaret. I shall not be insipid any longer!”
“Ah,” Margaret said. “I see what is happening.”
“Lady Somerset!”
Eliza and Margaret turned to find themselves, for the second time in as many days, borne down upon by Mrs. and Miss Winkworth.
“Good day!” Mrs. Winkworth cried. “Are you bound for the Pump Room, as well? We shall join you.”
“Wonderful,” Margaret muttered under her breath, voice thick with sarcasm.
“Did you enjoy the concert last night, my lady?” Mrs. Winkworth asked Eliza. “It has not tired you out, has it? If I may say, you are looking a trifle fatigued.”
No, you may not, Eliza thought testily.
“We enjoyed the concert very much,” she said. “How did you find it?”
“Well,” Mrs. Winkworth began with great emphasis, “I am not sure I think it wholly wise for Lady Hurley to have so encouraged these Melvilles. She cannot be aware of the family’s reputation—Lady Hurley’s husband acquired his title through trade, you know, so we cannot expect her to be well-versed in such intricacies.”
Mrs. Winkworth made a great deal of her gentility in comparison to Lady Hurley’s—that Admiral Winkworth’s wealth had been accrued just as recently, from his time employed by the East India Company, she elected to overlook.
“The furor when the late earl chose such an . . . exotic lady to wife! I have never known its equal.” Mrs. Winkworth paused, as if expecting Eliza or Margaret to beg her to continue. They did not. As much anger as Eliza felt toward Melville and Lady Caroline, she still did not want to hear such unpleasantness.
“And while I do so hate gossip,” Mrs. Winkworth carried on in a lowered voice, “the whispers were that the late earl spent his time in India wearing the dress of a Musselman, attending all their festivals and goodness knows what else—”
“If the late Queen approved the match, I cannot think why anyone else should object,” Eliza interrupted.
The Melvilles were distantly related to Queen Charlotte on her majesty’s mother’s line and her public friendship with the late Lady Melville had done much to smooth the lady’s way into the ton.
“God rest her soul,” Mrs. Winkworth said at once. Then, as if she couldn’t help herself: “Whatever else, I do not believe that their reasons for visiting Bath can be as innocent as they maintain. And the London gossip will reach us eventually!”
Fortunately, conversation halted as they arrived at the Pump Room. A handsome building inside and out, with two ranges of large windows and a border of Corinthian columns, the Pump Room was where one could partake of Bath’s famous healing waters, whether to bathe in them downstairs, or more commonly to imbibe them in the room above. However, its importance was social as much as medical, as residents and visitors alike gathered throughout the day to take a stroll about the room, meeting friends and surveying for any interesting newcomers.
For each of Eliza’s visits thus far, the room had been pleasantly thrumming with people, with murmurs of chatter heard faintly over the violins that played every day from one o’clock, but today it was a veritable squeeze. And the reason for this change was all too apparent: holding court in the middle of the room were the Melvilles. Today, Lady Caroline was wearing a morning dress of green crêpe, its elegant simplicity making every other woman in the room look dreadfully overtrimmed by comparison, while the clinging fabric showed her fine figure off to perfection.
“And it appears we are to be seeing a great deal of Lady Caroline, in every sense,” Mrs. Winkworth said cuttingly.
“I think she looks wonderful,” Miss Winkworth said, so quietly that Eliza might not have heard her, had she not been standing so close. Unfortunately for Miss Winkworth, her mother heard her too.
“Her dress is indecent—and you ought not to admire it,” Mrs. Winkworth told her daughter severely. “Do you want Lady Somerset to think you fast?”
Miss Winkworth looked up to Eliza with such big, frightened eyes that she might have been eight years rather than eighteen.
“I do not think her fast,” Eliza said hastily. “I like Lady Caroline’s dress, too.”
“Good morning!” Lady Hurley and Mr. Fletcher had appeared behind them, followed within moments by Mrs. Michels and Mr. Broadwater. “What wonderful sunshine!”
“Splendid!” Mr. Fletcher agreed. In Eliza’s brief acquaintance with the gentleman, it appeared that his opinions on all persons, situations and conversations could be split into three: “splendid,” “not the thing” and, when the situation required, “damned if I know.”
“Are you imbibing the waters, today, Lady Hurley?” Eliza asked.
“Yes indeed, Mr. Fletcher is about to fetch me a glass—would you like one?”
“Oh yes, if it is not too much trouble, Mr. Fletcher?” Eliza said. “Can you carry so many?”
“Damned if I know,” Mr. Fletcher said, setting off with purpose, nonetheless.