Miss Price's Decision Page 12

  “I very much hope that Julia will be appreciative of Susan’s gesture,” said Sir Thomas.

  “Yes, I am sure she will. Susan, tell Waller to organise everything. I think I need a nap.”

  Smiling contentedly, Lady Bertram sat back in the sofa with puppy on her lap, while Sir Thomas submerged himself again in his paper. I walked out of the room to run my aunt’s errand, digging my nails in the palm of my hand and feeling vexed. I was once more being relegated to the servants’ quarters, and all because of Julia.

  Julia arrived looking tired from the journey but expressed her delight at being in Bath.

  “Oh, Mamma, we shall have so much fun! Won’t we, Caroline?”

  The head of a lady with fiery red hair appeared on the carriage door.

  “Papa, allow me to introduce Miss Bingley, the sister of an old friend of Mr Yates. You will remember Miss Bingley, Mamma; you met her at the theatre in London. I am sure you will enjoy her company as much as I do.”

  Miss Bingley’s curtsey to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram had the dignity of minor royalty. Although she was in her travel clothes, her natural style was apparent in the fabric and cut of her dress. I could tell that Lady Bertram, always one for noticing such things, was suitably impressed.

  “Miss Bingley, this is my niece, Miss Price,” said my uncle.

  “I believe we have met,” said I.

  “We have, although we did not have the chance to talk much. If I recall correctly, you were too busy speaking with a mysterious gentleman who came to pay his respects to you while we were visiting Mr and Mrs Yates’ box. It is delightful to see you anew, Miss Price.”

  I blushed. Sir Thomas’ eyes narrowed and Lady Bertram looked somewhat confused, but Julia laughed, as if her friend’s remarks were the wittiest she had heard in a lifetime.

  Once inside, after Julia and Miss Bingley had declared their perfect satisfaction with the accommodation arrangements, we all reconvened in the drawing room.

  “I trust Mr Yates is well,” said Sir Thomas.

  “He is very well, I thank you, Papa,” replied Julia. “He is very busy with his duties in Parliament, of course.”

  “I hope he does not begrudge your mother for forcing him to relinquish the pleasure of your company for a few weeks.”

  “He will be fine,” replied Julia curtly. “I barely see him these days, so when Miss Bingley mentioned that some common acquaintances were headed for Bath, I thought it too perfect a coincidence not to visit you and Mamma while you were still here.”

  “I am just glad that you could come,” smiled Lady Bertram.

  The conversation shifted to the visitors’ plans during the three weeks they planned to stay in Bath.

  “Miss Bingley’s brother and his party are arriving tomorrow. We must invite them to dinner the following day. What do you say, Mamma? They all went to university with Tom and are dear old friends of his.”

  “It is a pity that your brother is not here,” said Lady Bertram.

  “Is he still at the Balfours’ crumbling place in the middle of nowhere?” asked Julia, wrinkling her nose. “For the life of me, I cannot see the attraction.”

  “I believe your brother has become very fond of the countryside,” replied Sir Thomas in a terse voice.

  “I suppose Cheltenham is not too far. I visited last year with Mr Yates, whose aunt lives there, and it is a very genteel town, with lovely gardens, tree-lined promenades and a reasonably-sized ballroom. Still, I thought Tom would be bored by now.”

  “You speak of your brother as if you did not know him.” Sir Thomas’ whole demeanour was turning sour. “He is much changed since his illness, and now seems to appreciate the simpler things in life. Your mother and I are pleased with his rather more sedate lifestyle these days.”

  “Is Mr Bertram’s party in Gloucestershire a large one?” asked Miss Bingley in the direction of Lady Bertram.

  “I cannot tell. Susan, do you remember what Tom said in his last letter?”

  “I am afraid that my cousin did not write about the particulars of his present company, but he did mention that he had been riding a very fine black stallion.”

  “That is a man’s letter if I ever heard of one,” laughed Miss Bingley, but her expression changed the minute she saw Julia stare at me.

  “I cannot imagine there will be many people staying in the house. Mr Balfour’s nature is rather solitary. But other than riding, they will not have much to do,” said Julia with a grimace. “It is not hunting season yet.”

  “I understand that the Earl’s delicate health has forced him to bequest many of his responsibilities onto his son,” intervened Sir Thomas. “Mr Balfour is effectively in charge of the estate, so I cannot imagine him having ample leisure time. I rather hope that Tom is spending time with him and learning about such matters.”

  “I thought Mr Balfour was a second son,” said Lady Bertram, looking somewhat confused.

  “He is,” intervened Julia. “His eldest brother, the Baron, is well known in London. I have met him a few times. I must say, there are many scandalous rumours about him and his circle.”

  “I have heard of the malicious gossip that surrounds the family, but I was hoping you might not mention it in the present company,” said Sir Thomas. His cheeks had a red tinge, never a good sign. “In any case, Mr Balfour comes across as a conscientious, hard-working young man in spite of his privileges, very much the sort of company your mother and I wish your brother to keep.”

  Julia ducked her head. Miss Bingley, for her part, remained perfectly composed during the exchange. I was beginning to admire her poise.

  For dinner that night Miss Bingley and Julia wore pretty gowns, but by no means the kind I had seen them sport in London. I could also tell that less care had gone into their toilette, although they still looked fashionable. Miss Bingley’s deportment, undoubtedly the result of a very expensive education, intrigued me the most. She moved with elegance and deliberation, and her slow gestures gave her a regal air that I had rarely seen before. My cousin, on the other hand, appeared over-excited. I wondered if something was amiss between her and her husband, which might explain her delight in being away from London.

  We ate companionably, and throughout the meal Julia let us know her views on the weather, the expected entertainment in the coming weeks, the dishes that she believed Cook should prepare for the planned visit of Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy, her wishes that Mr Yates did not miss her exceedingly and her shopping plans for the morrow. Lady Bertram clearly enjoyed her daughter’s ebullient conversation at first, but after half-an-hour her nerves were beginning to look slightly frayed at such impetuous declarations. As for Miss Bingley, she was the perfect guest, speaking at the right times and in the right amount.

  When we were just about finished with the soup, the butler came in and whispered something in my uncle’s ear. Sir Thomas’ features stiffened for a second, but he soon smiled. Putting down his spoon, he made an announcement.

  “I have an unexpected piece of news. It appears that Tom is downstairs.”

  Lady Bertram looked at him with a huge grin, like a child on Christmas morning.

  “What a wonderful surprise!”

  “It is a surprise, indeed,” said Julia, turning to her friend. “You see, my brother Tom is not known to particularly enjoy Bath. The last time I heard him speak on the subject, he declared that he was fed up with the ill, infirm and old roaming the streets, and declared that he would much rather visit any of the many seaside resorts mushrooming up and down the coast of England than return to this putrid town. Those were his precise words, I assure you.”

  Miss Bingley smiled faintly at her friend’s words but kept her composure, as if she knew that Sir Thomas would likely object to any further comment. Ignoring his daughter’s words, my uncle addressed the butler.

  “Waller, please let Mr Bertram in, and make the necessary arrangements for tonight.”

  I could not see how Tom could be accommodated in what was already a f
ull house, but Waller nodded, and his confident steps disappeared into the hallway. He returned a few minutes later with another pair of heels clicking behind him. The door opened and Tom Bertram entered the dining parlour. I almost gasped at his appearance.

  Tom was so altered that it took me an instant to recognise my good-humoured cousin, who always jested and made me laugh during his Mansfield Park visits. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed many sleepless nights. His velvet jacket was stained, his breeches crumpled, and even his usually coiffed hair was in such disarray that I did not think for a minute that it was an attempt at sporting studiously tangled locks similar to Mr Yates’. Overall, he had the painful air and lack of self-concern that come with utter despair. In the five years I had known Tom, I had never seen him in anything remotely similar to his current state. I discreetly studied the faces of my dining companions, and realised with some alarm that they hadn’t, either.

  Tom greeted his father with respect, then directed a melancholy smile to Lady Bertram and kissed her hand.

  “I hope I am not intruding.”

  “Of course not, son. Your visit is a surprise but by no means an unpleasant one. Please take a seat and join us,” said Sir Thomas.

  Tom hesitatingly sat at the table. His sister Julia greeted him with affection.

  “Whatever are you doing in Bath? We all thought you in Gloucestershire! You do remember Miss Bingley, don’t you?”

  “How do you do, Miss Bingley? I hope your brother is in good health.”

  “He is, and he will be able to give you his assurances himself very soon. He is due to dine with us tomorrow, alongside Mr Darcy.”

  Tom gave her another one of his eminently sad smiles. He certainly appeared in low spirits. Then he saw me, and bowed in my direction.

  “Susan, it is a pleasure to see you. It has been a while.”

  I smiled. We had always been fond of each other, and I was glad that he had joined the party, even if he looked a little worse for wear.

  The footmen brought in the fish that Cook had prepared that night and my cousin began to eat with little appetite, judging from the way his fork chased beans around the plate. The chiming of the metal against the fine porcelain was unnerving, and I found myself wishing he would stop. I suppose my uncle and cousin felt the same way, for they both started to asked him harmless questions about his recent trip in an attempt to distract him from what was in his plate.

  “I take it that you have had a pleasant stay. Does Mr Henry Balfour permanently reside in the country?”

  “Yes, he is effectively running the estate. The Earl has been unwell for quite some time and barely leaves his chambers. I never saw him in the six weeks I spent in Gloucestershire.”

  “Did you see his sister at all? I believe she married only last year,” asked Miss Bingley.

  “I did, indeed. She came to stay with her husband, the Compte du Mont-Poleil.”

  “I did not realise she had married a Frenchman,” said Julia.

  “He is practically destitute, of course, but he has one of the oldest titles in France. He also owns an extraordinary collection of powder and rouge. I dare say it is much more extensive than his wife’s.”

  “Oh, Tom!” laughed Julia, and I smiled. Tom’s irreverent comment was typical of the cousin I knew and loved. He may be melancholy, but all was not lost.

  “Who else was there?” asked Miss Bingley.

  “There was Edward Fulham, who visited Mansfield Park a few years ago. You will remember him, mother. He was quite in love with … but never mind.”

  Lady Bertram’s fingers were clutching the cutlery so tightly that her knuckles looked almost white. I realised that my cousin Maria must have been the recipient of Mr Fulham’s affections.

  “I bet Mr Fulham spent most of the time locked up in the library. That was his second favourite occupation in Mansfield Park, after staring at a certain person for hours,” laughed Julia.

  Lady Bertram was now very still.

  “Was it a very small party, then?” I asked, attempting to change the conversation.

  “Quite. Although there was also Fulham’s cousin. Miss Ewing,” said Tom with a sigh.

  “Ewing? Is she one of the Ewings from Durnbarton Manor in Buckinghamshire?” asked Miss Bingley with a frown.

  Tom appeared truly baffled by the question.

  “She is. Miss Ewing is orphaned, and Fulham’s father is her guardian. She has lived with the Fulhams for as long as I have known them.”

  At the mention of Miss Ewing’s family circumstances, Lady Bertram left her napkin on the table and stroked it, as she would her pug.

  “Poor girl, fatherless and motherless. Does she have a good settlement?”

  “I believe it is around 30,000 pounds.”

  “Does she have a pleasant countenance? Is she generally thought pretty?”

  His face suddenly went crimson red.

  “Most of those who meet Miss Ewing comment on her elegance and beauty.”

  “Then she will be expected to marry Mr Fulham.”

  “Never!”

  We all turned to look at him in surprise. Tom’s face was white, a reminder that his health wasn’t as robust as it once was. Lady Bertram reached out her hand and patted her eldest son’s arm, but the colour refused to return to Tom’s cheeks. With the help of Miss Bingley, Julia attempted to change the subject to the attractions and amusements of Bath. However, her brother uttered little more than monosyllables and barely smiled upon being reminded of his famous last words on the topic. Sir Thomas remained pensive throughout the meal.

  After dinner everyone played cribbage in order to please Lady Bertram, and a couple of hours were spent so engaged. In spite of Tom’s sad state, Lady Bertram, with son and daughter at either side of her, looked joyous. Sir Thomas was grave as usual, while Miss Bingley acted like the perfect guest, praising her hosts at every possible occasion and listening to their every comment, and Julia appeared rather pleased with herself, perhaps because Tom’s unusually silent disposition allowed her to lead the conversation. I was glad to see some semblance of equilibrium restored, but Tom’s evident misery, which was not altered all evening in spite of his winning on two occasions, was extremely concerning.

  Chapter 13

  No trip to Bath could be complete without a visit to the world-famous Pump Room, and the following morning Sir Thomas accompanied the guests to the famous landmark, so they might admire its graceful proportions, complain about the large crowds and wrinkle their noses at the stench of the medicinal waters. I stayed with Lady Bertram, who would not be separated from her puppy and was adamant that the visit would be too excitable for the dog, and instead we went for a pleasant walk. Upon their return, I heard Julia and Miss Bingley express their pleasure at seeing many acquaintances and receiving many invitations during their little excursion.

  In the afternoon, Julia took it upon herself to help her mother renew her entire wardrobe. Deciding that only half of the samples so carefully chosen by Mrs Allen were usable, my cousin and aunt, escorted by Sir Thomas, took a chaise to the best fabric shop in town, to buy yards and yards of muslin, silk and velvet, and to commission the best seamstress one could find in Bath to make new gowns for Lady Bertram. Sensing perhaps that a shopping trip with Julia was a rare treat for her mother, Miss Bingley tactfully chose to stay in the house, with the excuse that her pale skin would not withstand a full day walking out of doors.

  My cousin, who did not appear until well past midday after a night spent in a makeshift bed in the little room that served as my uncle’s study, was still in a melancholy mood and he, too, chose to remain indoors. The three of us - Tom, Miss Bingley and I - sat in the drawing room, waiting for the tea-things to be brought in. I opened the book I had borrowed from the library, but it had few pictures, and I began to listen in to Tom and Miss Bingley’s conversation. It became apparent that Miss Bingley and my cousin had several common acquaintances and had crossed paths in the past.

  Miss Bingley
spoke much of Mr Darcy, hinting at the particular friendship she shared with him. I suppressed a smile. I had seen them together a few times and could not recall a single instant in which Mr Darcy’s gestures had intimated that he considered the lady anything other than the sister of a dear friend. Miss Bingley may be fooling herself as to Mr Darcy’s intentions, but her infatuation was understandable. As well as a large fortune, he was really very handsome. His sharp jaw, aristocratic nose and high brow were the epitome of manliness, and his lofty figure, elegant countenance and grave air only added to his looks.

  I put the book down and cradled my chin in my hand. Mr Darcy’s faint resemblance to Jamie Gartner intrigued me. I had been too flustered on the two recent occasions that I had met Jamie to thoroughly observe him. In the case of Mr Darcy, however, I had had ample time to study his features, particularly when I was hiding behind the curtains in the study. I blushed slightly at the memory, and felt an uneasy pull inside of me, just as I did whenever Mr Cole invaded my thoughts.

  Shortly afterwards, Miss Bingley excused herself, and so did Tom, looking rather pale. When I was sure to be on my own, I took my drawing materials from the console drawer and opened the sketchbook to reveal a fresh piece of paper. Then I closed my eyes, picturing myself back in the downstairs study at the Yates’ London residence, hiding behind the velvet curtains, and began the task of recalling every single detail that I had committed to memory.

  Father once said that it was a pity I had been born a girl, for with my good memory for faces and numbers, I would have made a fine apprentice in the customs’ house. He was right. Behind my shut eyelids I could see Mr Darcy’s face as clearly as if he was in front of me. I made a mental note of every surface, every hollow and every faint line. When I opened my eyes again, I knew exactly what I had to draw, and applied myself to the task until I had a passable likeness of the gentleman on the paper in front of me. The ears were a tad too small, and his hair was not quite as it ought to be, but in the candlelight, its edges had blended with the background of the room, and, try as I might, I could not quite recall the precise way in which it fell.